PROLOGUE


This is how it began…
The world awoke to the sounds of war and its very essence arose from its fiery center to look upon its surface. Thus was born the personification of life. Its power was all and its knowledge was all encompassing. It had planned on sleeping until the first forms of life began but that had changed. Upon its surface it found a veritable horde of otherworldly beings that had taken it upon themselves to set up their own environment on Earth. As the All of life looked on it learned that it had been invaded by beings not so unlike itself, except for one important difference.
It sensed the level of power those beings held was not as strong as its own. Immediately it recognized that the reason for this was because this world was not their place of origin. Here, its will was all. Knowing this and seeing the violent and chaotic personalities of its visitors life knew that something must be done. Life had plans, you see. It had already decided upon the forms the creatures of Earth would take and they would not be able to survive in the same environment as that which these brutal alien gods had created.
Earth was subject to the laws of the cosmos though. There must be a balance in all things. If life was beauty and unending energy then there must be an opposing force. This force took on the myriad forms of what would later be known in history as the elder gods. Beings like Chthon and Tiamat and several others better left unmentioned. Their corrupt natures were spawned from countless other worlds, lured to Earth by inner yearnings for power as well as revenge against one another. These beings had used the newborn planet as a battleground, warping benign races from other worlds into demonic and horrid monsters that fought their wars for aeons.
That is, until the embodiment of life decided to interfere. Giving itself a name, Gaea, and appearing as the immaculate image of what it felt would be the most suitable, a human woman, Gaea became involved in the wars. Using fragments of her essence she created the first gods among the earthly pantheons and sent them forth. Time passed quickly and the world had reshaped itself to what she had planned. The elder gods were helpless to stop it and could only throw tantrums as their landscapes were torn asunder and made habitable. Their forces were pushed back to the most remote corners where life had yet to take shape and their battles grew more infrequent and less disastrous.
All of Gaea’s children tended the life that formed on her surface and fought battle after battle against the hordes of the elders. Foremost among those gods was one group of godlings she held dearest to her heart. They were known as the Godchildren of Gaea and these she kept as the caretakers of a special race of mortals. A race devoted and created specifically for the wars against the servants of the elder gods. Long before the first histories were written they became known as the Demonslayers. They were beings created from the essences of every other living creature of good. They possessed Elven compassion and intelligence, Dwarven will and fortitude, Human adaptability and curiosity and many, many more.
All of these attributes combined would create the most respected and feared race of men ever known or ever to be known. They would cause the closing of the gateways created for the elder gods and their servants all over the world. They would send the demons screaming and begging into their only haven, the Abyss.
With the portals closed the elder gods would be at an extreme disadvantage. They couldn’t move their armies or bring in any reinforcements. Gaea was pleased. Soon she was also known by another name, Astnalia. By this name she was known by her children as the All Mother. Indeed she was the mother of Zeus, Odin, and of Osiris and of every god or creature under them.
Pleased with the success of her brood and the true course of her plan she then took her beloved pantheon with her to another plane, a plane that was far from Earth, yet from which they could still observe and aid their subjects. Left to their own designs the remaining gods went about claiming their own realms.
Mighty Zeus led the taking of Olympus from the titans while Odin’s predecessors defeated the evil Ymir and Surtur in the first settling of Asgaard and many other battles were fought. Many elder gods were destroyed along with scores of the Earth’s gods. Still, many more were born as the Earthly deities discovered they had the power to create. So as the planes were taken and controlled by the many pantheons they then turned their attentions to the inhabitants of Earth.
As they spread their influence and laws time passed and they became full of themselves and disdainful of the idea that even they were ruled by a higher power. They hadn’t seen or heard from the All Mother or her mysterious pantheon in eons. Surely they’d moved on and no longer looked upon the world.
Surprisingly, this was part true. They had indeed moved on. Astnalia and each of her seven gods had long before the creation of the other gods or of sentient and non-sentient life, found a world that was ancient when Earth was yet newly formed. This world was called Kole. Much larger and already populated with multitudes of races and elder gods, this world was a universal proving ground. Having helped bring relative peace to Earth, the mother and her seven Godchildren focused their attention there. In truth Astnalia could never wholly leave for she was in essence the very world itself, and the seven always kept constant vigil over their special flock on Earth. They merely sought a place where they might perhaps grow in power away from the petty bickering of the rest of Earth’s pantheons.
Yet, there was a major problem. The elder called Chthon was the supreme power on Kole and he remembered well his defeat on Earth by Astnalia and her treasured children. He allowed them to find a place on his world but would never let them rest. Thus the war was rejoined. Astnalia’s children went about finding new subjects. Races they could instill with the characteristics of the Demonslayers. This was not difficult for there were many godless people whose gods were banished from Kole or had been slain.
Still, Astnalia’s children were at a disadvantage. With their power based on Earth they couldn’t bring their true force to bear. Their true forms on Earth, lesser aspects on Kole, and only a tenuous gateway between the two, their power was spread too thin in the end. As soon as Chthon discovered the gateway it was sundered. Astnalia’s children on Earth were separated from their lesser forms on Kole and underwent a great tumult because of the sundering. If not for the All Mother they would have been driven mad with rage and grief, because all of the eight gods, Astnalia included, knew their aspects on Kole would likely be irrevocably changed or completely driven insane by the separation. Weakened by the sundering they were forced to forget Kole and rest in their home plane on Earth.
For a long time they dwelled away from other pantheons and concerned themselves only with defending Earth from the Elder Gods and their minions. This they did well and without ever considering treachery. Especially from their own brethren in Olympus or Asgaard. Knowing Astnalia and her brood were weaker now, Chthon began a new campaign on Earth of turning the pantheons against them. A whisper here or a pointing finger there, or even a viscious attack upon a lesser pantheon by Chthon’s servants, which was for the sole purpose of blaming Astnalia’s children. No god would ever attack or accuse Astnalia for she was purity and goodness personified. Her seven champions were another matter. Was it not they who drew Astnalia away from the others? Was it not they who took most of the glory for the defeat of the elder gods? It was they who stood between them and the sweet All Mother’s attentions, thus taking away any chance for gaining more power for deeds appreciated.
Yes, these insecurities served Chthon well. Soon he would cause an attack that would spell the end for Astnalia’s favored and toll the doom of all of Earth’s protectors, but first and at last, the Demonslayers.
A concerted approach by the most powerful of Earth’s gods would ensue. Before Gaea the gods made their accusations and even though the All Mother knew they were false she could not convince the accusers. The accusers soon became enraged and the Godchildren would not consider being punished by the misled and struck out. This, to the accusers, proved their guilt and a great battle ensued. Each side pleaded to Gaea to choose a side, which she would never do. As her children fought she wept, and with her despair she fashioned a realm at the bottommost pit of the Abyss. There she sent her Godchildren and made to the accusers appear as if they’d won. Thus saving all of her children, she once again retreated.
Now, with the Godchildren of Gaea in hiding and the other gods preoccupied with their own pomposity, Chthon would strike. His main goal, destroy the Demonslayers. With them gone his minions would have free reign on Earth. With their gods destroyed he could call forth a return of the other elder gods. His wars would resume and his revenge would be taken against his elder nemesis. While on Earth he would become the All god and the pantheons would kneel to him and him alone.


CHAPTER 1
AWAKENING


“Well boy, I suppose that is all we can do for you but we think you should stay the night and get you’re rest.” Said Niryni. She was the eldest of the gathered wives who had come running to help when they heard about the accident and the injured young man. Her chubby face glistened from the sweat she’d shed in his name. He hugged her again and he felt light headed as he sunk into her embrace.
None knew him but more than one already had the thought of introducing the handsome young fellow to their eldest daughter. Niryni had a leg up on the others already. Her daughter, Refiette, had come with her to the scene and was clearly admiring the boy. He was over six feet tall and his skin was darkened by the sun. His hair hung well below shoulder length and was thick and black as a midnight sky. His eyes were icy blue and betrayed no emotion. His youth was obvious but his thick muscular frame suggested more experience in either labor or fighting than any normal lad his age.
Through much complaint from the doting women the young man soon donned his armor and prepared to leave. It was not an easy thing to do since one of the six women seemed to be more than simply concerned for him.
Refiette had long black, silky hair and big brown eyes so dark they were nearly black as well. She wore a frilled dress that covered almost her entire shapely figure but for the revealed cleavage he struggled to ignore. The way her lips pouted when she smiled at him made his heart flutter and his blood boil and she seemed to take pleasure in that. Perhaps it was even in her plan. Though the young man felt certain that at any other time he might have relished the attention he felt uncomfortable surrounded by strangers who treated him with such kindness. The danger of ignoring who he once was and entering a life of bliss beside the young woman who yearningly stared at him was a looming threat he somehow knew he must avoid.
“Lady, if you could tell me your name so that in my journey I might keep your name on my lips, I would be forever in your debt.” The young man said.
All of the women hooted and giggled at that but the girl only coyly replied, “My name, sir, is Refiette. If you please, what is your name?”
His heart stopped its fluttering then, as did the noise that had been filling his ears. He could not remember his name, not even for this breathtaking vision.
“I am sorry. I think that which brought me low has also stolen my memory, for I cannot recall my name nor why I am here in this place.”
Refiette’s eyes filled with sadness. “You are in the town of Selonia in the land of Pannononia. No one knows you here and my father said he saw you in the morning just passing through.”
A revelation was a revelation and the girl had given him more information than he had.
“I thank you, and I thank all of you for your charity. I would love to stay a while and get to know each of you but I must find someone who can help me.”
None of the ladies objected but they each embraced him as he headed for the open door, kind Niryni last. Refiette gave more than an embrace though. She planted such a kiss upon him that he thought surely afterwards he would remember who he was. Sadly, that was not the result.
As the young man stepped from the house and walked onto the dirt road he was greeted by two smiling men he did not recognize, even as they stared him down. They’re piecemeal armor was painted in what seemed to be blood and their long greasy hair was ended in tiny carved skull totems.
“There you are, lad!” The taller of the two exclaimed. The men hurried forward and embraced him roughly. They kept him moving as they patted him on the back.
“We were worried sick over you!” The shorter one said with a grin. The young man felt a sick feeling in his belly. They spoke as if they were friends but their eyes said otherwise.
Once nearer the town’s center they pushed him roughly into an alley. Twilight had drawn near and shadows enveloped the smelly place but the young man had only scant seconds to consider this before he was shoved against the wall.
“Prepare yourself Demonslayer!” One proclaimed. “My brother and I have been stuck in this place for too long in hopes of running into one of you’re kind! Now that we have you your death will be our reward!”
Nose to nose and face to face the two men fought an inner war. Hate for hate they dueled with the favored weapon of every man, ego. The evil man steeled his will for what he hoped would be his last killing of a Demonslayer. He had been left in Selonia by his cult shamans to act as a lookout for any signs of remaining Slayarians. He yearned to be free of the place.
The young and stubborn man did not know his own name but he was sure he would never allow his own death to pass so easily. The smelly barbarian drew his curved blade and held it menacingly before the young man’s face, but just as the end seemed inevitable, a sudden impossibility occurred.
A dagger point appeared at the barbarian’s throat, right from his larynx. The barbarian’s eyes opened wide as blood erupted from the throat wound spraying the confused young man before him. He attempted to scream out but only a muted gurgle came forth. Then he fell backwards, dead before he hit the ground. The clang of metal on steel broke the stunned moment and the amnesia stricken youth looked on to see his savior battling hard against the second barbarian. He was just as surprised to see that his savior was no veteran warrior or some guard on patrol. The man was more than likely the same age as he was and judging by his polished armor and foreign garb he was surely a stranger to Selonia .
Watching as the two men exchanged parries it was clear to him that his savior was more skilled with the sword than the barbarian but he was outweighed and not as strong as the savage. Seeing aid may be required he screamed as loud as he could and charged the fray, distracting the evil looking attacker just enough to allow the hero to plunge his blade into his gut. Watching as his attacker fell to his knees and died, the young man felt a strange satisfaction he could not explain. Then he suddenly recalled an important piece of his identity, his name. He heard it in his mind from a voice he knew he should have recognized but somehow could not.
His name was Darkon.
Overjoyed at this recollection Darkon held his arm out to the warrior who had saved his life and said, “I am Darkon and I am in your debt!”
Appearing uncertain why he’d risked his life like he had the young savior held forth his hand to make a warrior’s clasp of victory. “I am Prince Galen, of Genossia” The prince was slightly taller than he with short brown hair and green eyes. He was slimmer and moved with more agility but had none of the thick musculature Darkon bore.
Bewildered that a prince would be the one to aid him Darkon found no words except, “Thanks be to you, good prince!”
“Darkon, why did you seem so confused by these men when they seemed so sure of who you were?” The prince openly asked.
Darkon explained to the prince what little he did recall then Galen said, “I have heard my father talk of such injuries among his army on occasion. Now I understand your lack of words as that lout was about to slay you.”
“Yes, it was when that man called me a Demonslayer that images began to appear in my mind and my name soon surfaced from the sights in my pounding skull.” Smacking the sides of his head Darkon growled in frustration. Ever since he had stepped foot out of Niryni’s home images and sounds had been flashing through his thoughts but there was nothing he could put together enough for words. He was disoriented and felt astrong urge to lay down and sleep.
“Fear not. For I’ve been told such injuries can be temporary and judging by the speed at which you’ve recovered you’re name I’d say it has already begun. Have you seen a healer?” He asked. “I know of a true servant of the gods. A priest whose healing ability is miraculous and best of all no sacrifices must be made, only payment in coins. Of which I have plenty.”
At this Darkon seemed to balk. “You would do this for me? Why?”
Galen shrugged his shoulders. “I am a prince of a small kingdom far to the west and south of here. I’ve been traveling on my own for some time now seeking adventure. I go wherever it leads me and as far as I can tell it has led me to you.” Galen grinned and ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, you’re as alone as I am and a companion on the road to recovery is no small thing.”
Darkon was in fact overjoyed that he had met the prince and wondered if some deity had intended for them to meet that day. Galen had not considered the possibility. All he understood was the uncanny feeling that if he left Darkon’s side he might miss out on a path that could lead to his destiny. There was no course as far as he could see other than to walk beside the confused warrior and walk they did as Galen described the land around the town he’d nicknamed Havoctown. It sat north of Macedonia and at the midpoint between the Black sea and the Mediterranean. The journey would undoubtedly take some time.

^ ^ ^

After spending several days together traveling Darkon and Galen became fast friends, although their differences soon became apparent. As different as they were, neither man had a single complaint about the other. They respected each other and their opinions and each young man quickly came to think he needed to hear the other’s view before committing to a decision. In that way they acted as a balance for one another. Galen’s tendency to jump into things was calmed by Darkon’s need to explore every angle of a situation beforehand. Darkon’s habit of overanalyzing until every situation seemed too dangerous or impractical was diluted by Galen’s rabid enthusiasm.
The first true test of their new friendship came to them as they traveled southeast toward Havoctown and the Black Sea that lay far beyond it. There they had become sidetracked in a tiny village called Thelebes.
The village had been settled by enemies of the declining Greek and growing Roman empires. They were a people cast out of their homes because of their unwanted opinions on slavery and wrongful imprisonment. To avoid facing those things themselves they’d been forced to flee. In Thelebes they built a haven for those who shared their views. Near the borders of both those nations and Mesopotamia, they were safe from all of the forces that desired their destruction. None of the kingdoms could mount an army so close to the other’s border without rekindling old wars that had never truly ended. Those in Thelebes were safe until the three nations could agree.
Galen and Darkon spoke only Latin and Gaelic and the inhabitants of the tiny haven regarded them with curiosity because of their heavy accents. It was a relief then when they met a pair of young men who were much like them in that they were a long way from home.
The light skinned, robe enshrouded northerner introduced himself as simply, Squirrel, and his swarthy companion he referred to as, Shadow. Both men claimed to be adventurers and far from home. Squirrel was pale and thin, or as Galen called him, feeble. His wide, pale blue eyes seemed to dart back and forth and he was always nervously wringing his hands. He said he was a mage, recently released from his apprenticeship in northern Celtic Gaul. He had met Shadow not long after and the two decided to form an alliance.
Shadow mostly kept silent, though he did mention he was from southern Phoenicia and he had lost his parents to interfamily wars. His area of expertise was obvious by the manner in which he carried himself. He seemed to cling to whatever shadows were near and always tried his best to remain unnoticed. Even though in Thelebes he stuck out like a duck in a wolf’s den.
“I can take care of myself just fine!” Shadow said with a frown.
Squrrel raised his hand and stopped his companion from going on. “We are not true warriors like yourselves, no, but we are very capable in the field. We could use the both of your swords for an adventure we have planned. The current leaders of Thelebes said they would finance it only if we found more muscle and steel.”
Darkon and the prince exchanged amused glances and shrugged in acceptance of the invitation. “We will help you for now but once we are done we have a journey of our own to complete.” He did see the invite as an opportunity for him to gain some wealth of his own since all he had to trade was his armor and sword, so he didn’t mind the temporary distraction.
After accepting, the two warriors awaited Squirrel just outside the local smithy, Shadow always lurking close by. When Squirrel showed up near midday he promptly handed each of them, including Shadow, a small leather pouch of gold bits.
“We are to spend our gold only here in Thelebes. Whatever we have left after this day I am obligated to give back. We will be rewarded upon our return.” Squirrel said.
“There is hardly anyplace here to spend this much gold!” Darkon exclaimed, holding his pouch out before him.
“That’s the point.” Shadow offered. “They’ll reward us but their reward will come back to them eventually and they essentially gain our services for free.”
Squirrel nodded nervously beside him but the young would be mage missed the sly wink Shadow gave Darkon and Galen. Darkon did not react outwardly to the gesture but inwardly he was already worried. Shadow clearly meant to keep his part of the gold. Already this small alliance was showing a lack of trustworthiness. The thief obviously cared little for Squirrel’s pledge to return the remaining gold.
“There’s still the matter of explaining to us what you have planned, Squirrel.” Galen nearly growled as he still held his pouch away from his body, signifying that he had not yet agreed to anything.
Squirrel took the hint and reached into a long pouch he had sewn to the inside of his robe. From it he withdrew a thick, bark sheaf and held it out for everyone to see.
“I was given this little map by a local merchant. He told me he acquired it from the corpses of bandits who attacked his caravan not far from here.” Squirrel softly voiced.
The map showed precise knife marks that had been shaded by a berry colored dye of some kind. It pictured a round hill that was described as hollow. Only a few roughly hewn chambers seemed to exist but what was remarkable was the sketch of what they assumed was a dragon! Squirrel noted aloud that if there was a dragon within the hollow hill it could not have been a large one.
Hearing this Darkon and Galen exchanged incredulous looks. As far as both of them were concerned there was no such thing as dragons. Legends abounded about the creatures but even in the prince’s well storied memory none had been seen in centuries.
Squirrel noted the exchange and hurried to recover his credibility. “I have never laid eyes upon a dragon but some of the locals claim they have and blame it for the disappearances of their sacred oxen. If we bring back some part of the dragon we will be rewarded substantially.”
Again the skeptical warriors exchanged disbelieving gazes.
Shadow laughed at them and said, “I feel as you do, of course, but we still might find something the locals have mistaken as a dragon. Either way, we get our reward!”
That was enough to convince Galen though Darkon still doubted that the venture would lead anywhere favorable for them.
“We can spend the remaining day purchasing supplies and tomorrow after dawn we can begin the journey east. I have estimated the journey should take only three days by horseback.” Squirrel said.
They had no steeds thus the gold would be used to purchase them. Darkon had agreed finally to the journey but warned Squirrel and most pointedly Shadow that he would not be happy if the two tried to trick he and Galen. The prince accentuated the warning with a smile as he tightly gripped the pommel of his blade.
After that the men split up and began their search for supplies within the town. Darkon entered the smithy and asked the man if a bow crafter was in Thelebes. There was but the smith sold the arrowheads to the bow crafter so he decided to cut some cost and purchase fourteen of them. His skill with a bow was average at best, but Prince Galen's was even worse. Between the two, they both agreed, one of them would have to use a bow in case a situation required it. He’d been elected thus he used most of his gold to purchase a finely crafted bow and arrows, along with all the leather accoutrements that he would need to carry them.
Galen’s duty was more challenging. He searched for a horse owner who would, for some measure of gold, lend the men four healthy steeds. It turned out to be rare enough for someone to even own a single horse let alone four. When he came to the end of the village where the few wealthier folk lived in their more sturdy stone buildings he realized his duty was not likely to be fulfilled. One pleasant surprise did await him though. Her name was lady Mafyeel. He’d been immediately enchanted by the lady’s distinguished beauty, and though she was clearly his elder by a decade or more, years of careful living and attentiveness to her own needs had assured her a lasting attractiveness.
When Galen asked her about her stable she said she would happily lend him four steeds, though her price would not be in gold. Befuddled at the woman’s forwardness he let himself be led inside her spacious home. He’d ever been lucky with women but this was not something he was accustomed to. He was used to being the initiator in dealing with the fairer species thus he was understandably nervous and unable to perform up to his usual standard. Luckily lady Mafyeel took pity on him and lent him the steeds anyway, asking only that when he returned they try again in a more comfortable setting. He assured her he would return, even though in his heart he knew he might never be able to face the lady again. In fact, he couldn’t even look the horses in the face as he led them down the path that ran through Thelebes.
Squirrel fared much better than the prince. The pale mage acquired all the needed horse feed and field rations his frail form could carry. He had estimated the four man party would only need about six days worth of food but he purchased nine in anticipation of any unforeseen difficulty. Along with some cooking tools and thick horse blankets for the riders to sit upon he was a comical sight as he stumbled his way back toward the smithy.
Shadow’s duty was the most subtle and pivotal. Using his talent for insinuative persuasion he went to the people and looked for any information that might aid the party. He walked back and forth from wooden cabin to stone hovel, gathering any tale about the hollow hill or the dragon in particular. Most of what he learned he knew he could discount as myth. Yet the witnesses to the ox disappearances told very believable tales.
One old woman cried as she described how the great dragon had crept up to her and her beloved ox from a wheat field. Shadow looked disbelieving but she swore that neither she nor her sacred beast had seen or heard anything that would warn them of the attack. It was as if the dragon had just appeared. She said the thing was all thrash and roar as it enclosed the ox’s head in its great maw.
Similar stories about the manner of the dragon’s appearance abounded. The attacks did seem to have a sort of pattern. Every month another one occurred at about the same time. It appeared the creature had the capability to consume one ox a month, yet during the past two months there had been double the sightings and attacks. The descriptions had all been close except for the dragon’s size. Some claimed it was as big as a horse and chariot, while others said it was long but only stood as high as a wolf or lion. Whatever it’s true size the creature had to be quite powerful, for the oxen it dragged off were very heavy.
When the two pairs of unlikely new allies regrouped before the smithy they swiftly drew the curious locals’ attention. Rumors of dragon hunters being in the village had spread quickly and anyone who was free from chores turned out to see them off. The only problem was they hadn’t planned on leaving until dawn.
“They seem to think we’re leaving now.” Quietly observed Squirrel.
“I wouldn’t mind leaving at this moment.” Galen commented, mostly under his breath.
Darkon looked at the moping prince in surprise. “You wouldn’t? I thought you wanted to…”
Galen cut him off before he could finish. “Never mind that, if you please!” He said through gritted teeth.
Darkon was perplexed but after a moment he began to recognize signs on his friend’s face that something had happened. Something prince Galen of Genossia was not overly proud of.
“I have not finished everything yet!” Shadow interjected.
“You told us everything we need to know, did you not?” Asked a confused Squirrel.
“Yes, of course, but I was going to suggest we all spend the night in the hall of happiness.” The thief quickly explained, a look of pure innocence upon his face.
Squirrel predictably allowed himself to be influenced. “Oh, uhm…if you really think we should.”
“Of course,” Shadow held his arms out to both sides and added, “We will celebrate as companions our new alliance and thus be like brothers upon the dawn.”
His words made sense but then he winked slyly again to Darkon who took that as a reassurance that the thief was up to no good.
“No. We leave now, as Galen suggested.” Darkon would hear no more argument. They agreed to leave in an hour as the sun closed upon the horizon. Cheers rang out as they rode off into the sunset and a song could be heard being sung by an old man holding a peculiar three-stringed instrument. No one, not even Galen, had ever seen it’s like but the sounds that came from it were soothing to the senses and inspiring to the soul.
“I feel like an idiot.” Squirrel muttered. “How am I ever going to get this right? Every adventuring expedition always leaves at dawn. We could be riding right into the dragon’s belly for all we know!”
Shadow rode beside him but said nothing. The thief had been hoping to unload some of the hall’s patrons of their most treasured valuables. Now all he had was a pouch of gold bits he had lied about spending. The villagers of Thelebes were close enough that Shadow guessed his untruth would eventually be discovered when the leaders questioned the people about the gold they received from the dragon hunters.
“Have no fear, Squirrel!” Darkon said as he rode up beside the sulking mage and clapped him hard on the back.
“Shadow did say the beast had not been sighted in two months, did he not?” Galen added from ahead of the others, now jovial since they had left Thelebes and his humiliation behind.
Begrudgingly Squirrel agreed and the men continued onward in darkness until midnight. The moon was only a quarter full, leaving little light to see by. Their camp became an experience unto itself because apparently neither Squirrel nor Shadow had ever had to sleep under the stars before. The two had both been used to living under the roof of their master or living in populated areas and not doing much travel alone. Darkon and Galen realized then that they had been misled about the two strangers. They had been under the impression that they were experienced at least somewhat.
Angrily and with little pity for possibly hurt feelings, Galen gave Shadow and Squirrel a crash course in campsite lore. Darkon merely watched as the smaller men cringed under the volatile temper of the prince. Every time Galen turned around he swore Shadow nearly ducked and Squirrel almost passed out from the stress. Eventually the mood calmed though and Darkon decided to take first watch. The mage said he would take the final, early morning watch since he would need the sunlight to aid in his studies.
Thus the order of watch was set for the next three days. Three long, uneventful days. Upon the third morning Squirrel’s face turned bright red in embarrassment as Darkon announced he could plainly see the hollow hill they had been looking for from the tree enshrouded campsite. To think they had spent the night under the shadow of what might have been a dragon’s home was quite disconcerting.
“If a dragon is nearby his dreaded nose must not be working very well.” Galen said with a sarcastic sneer.
Squirrel could only look at the ground, unable to meet the mocking glares of both Darkon and Galen. Thankfully Shadow could always find a way out of an uncomfortable moment.
“Unless the dragon sleeps. It is said that a dragon can sleep through anything short of being directly attacked.” The thief chimed defensively.
“If there is a dragon let us hope it sleeps then.” Darkon added calmly as he prepared his steed for the short walk to the edge of the forest before the hill.
By midmorning the awkward quartet of adventurers stood beside the hollow hill and pondered on how they were going to get inside. After inspecting the outside area along the ground only a single possible entranceway was discovered. Shadow patiently poked a stick at a hollow in the rocky hillside. Galen, ever impatient, pushed him aside and leaned into the surface with all his weight. For a moment the swarthy thief felt superior when nothing happened. Then suddenly there was a shifting of rock and Galen's hunch proved correct. Someone had gone through a lot of effort to mortar over the cracks between the opening and the boulder that blocked it from the inside. The boulder only moved about two finger widths, but the prince had made his point. Darkon quickly joined his effort and with both of they’re backs combined they slowly pushed the rocks aside. With a heavy grind and crash the boulder and rocks fell aside and announced to all within that intruders had arrived.
Squirrel went to work handing everyone a torch and igniting each using a simple flame incantation. A tiny plume of flame jetted from the palm of his hand. Darkon smiled toward him and relayed his admiration for the trick.
Galen boldly entered first, followed by Squirrel and Shadow. Darkon cautiously took up the rear. What Galen saw as he entered the dark doorway surprised him. He had expected a roughly hewn chamber that would have worms crawling about the walls and spiders covering the ceiling with their webs. Instead, the high rounded chamber was flat while sturdy wooden planks covered the walls and floor. Whoever had created the hollow within the hill had painstakingly made sure there would be no collapses.
Within the chamber were all the dressings of someone’s personal living quarters. A table and four chairs sat on one side while a bed and frame sat in the other. All were made from the same wood that buttressed the entire room. A chest sat at the foot of the bed and within it were several human sized cloaks and robes, all neatly folded. While Shadow searched the chest and even under the hay mattress Galen moved to the single oaken door that Squirrel stood pointing to. Without hesitation he reached for the door latch. Before he could turn it though, Darkon called for him to stop.
“Wait, I have a bad feeling, Galen! I cannot explain it.” The Demonslayer said as he moved beside Galen.
Tentatively he placed his left hand flat against the door and whispered for his companions to quiet. After a moment his trepidation passed and he reached for the door’s latch and pulled. An audible click resounded from the doorway before the door even moved. Unsure of what the noise meant Darkon only stared at the door latch. Galen, having been tutored as an heir to the throne, recognized the sound as a possible trap. Instinctively he backed up two paces before he considered warning his oblivious friend. Shadow had been aware that any of the doors or latches could have been trapped but since the bold warriors demanded on opening the doors first he had not had the opportunity to check this one. Squirrel understood what the click was a prelude to and realized that Darkon did not. With a mind swifter than any present he acted where the others merely reacted.
As quickly as his thin body could move him, Squirrel was almost too late. As Darkon pulled again on the heavy door the waiting trap was sprung. Squirrel reached backward and picked up one of the wooden chairs and took two leaping strides toward the door. No sooner did he hold the chair up before the warrior’s face when something struck it with three solid thunks. Slowly backing away, chair still in hand but now weighed down, the mage peered around to the bottom of the seat and saw three iron wedges impaled into the wood surface. With a sigh of relief he promptly put the heavy chair down and sat upon it.
Darkon was in shock. The nervous little weakling had surely saved his life! Perhaps his damaged memory would not allow him to recall if he was truly worth the saving but at least Squirrel thought so.
“You…you saved me!” Darkon stammered.
Squirrel simply waved his hand in the air and said, “No bother.”


CHAPTER 2
FALSE IMAGES


After each man was certain the deadly trap would not reload they entered the next dark chamber. Now aware that someone was interested in keeping the place secret they took every step with caution. The next chamber was quite different from the last. The walls were still in their natural state and were coated in a sticky residue formed by the constant presence of trickling water. The ceiling domed upward out of sight and out of reach of the torchlight. A constant cascade of waterdrops fell from above, making the uneven floor slick and treacherous.
To his left as he entered Darkon saw the outline of a natural tunnel he surmised must have been carved by the flowing water. Taking a step toward it he saw how it sloped downward, its bottom surface worn smooth. As the four young men circled the chamber they found that the tunnel was the only way to go from the great wide chamber they now stood within.
Just as they gathered near the tunnel mouth Darkon shivered with a sudden feeling of dread. Feeling as if danger was upon him he drew forth his newly crafted bow and nervously knocked an arrow. He became oblivious to his companions as he tried to use the dread to sense where the threat would come from. When he finally heard his name being spoken he realized he was pointing the arrow at the dark enshrouded ceiling. He looked to either side of him and saw his friends looking askance, wondering what it was he saw or heard that made him react so.
Confusion showed on Squirrel’s face as he said, “What’s wrong?”
Darkon realized how silly he must look and wondered if that knock on the head he’d received before he and Galen had met was having some residual effect. It was bad enough he suffered constantly from head pains and a feeling of nausea whenever he moved too suddenly. A moment later the sound of something roaring down from the ceiling above stole their attention.
The flickering light of the torches battled with the darkness to reveal the descending form of what could only be a dragon! Darkon trembled as he loosed his arrow at the approaching beast while Squirrel hastily began a mystical chant. Shadow immediately retreated into the shadows and left his torch sputtering and popping upon the wet ground. Galen stood before Darkon and Squirrel with his sword held outward in fearful anticipation. As the dragon descended the prince called forth a bellowing war cry, one he did not doubt could be his very last. Darkon struggled with his still stiff bow and released another arrow, this time clearly hitting his mark. Dropping the bow he and Galen rolled to either side as he unsheathed his sword.
As the two warriors stood ready the shadow enwreathed dragon fell to the hard ground with a thump. Galen, on the border between fear and battle lust, held his ground and awaited the surprisingly small creature’s first move. Behind him he heard the mage’s chanting reach a crescendo and ducked as he felt a great heat approaching his back. A great shaft of fire soared over his head and arced directly into the dragon’s face. Curiously it did not even wince, even though the flames swiftly spread across its body.
A voice called out from behind the dragon and said, “What’s this? This is no dragon!” Shadow stepped from the shifting darkness and kicked the thing’s tail in disgust. The tail promptly separated from the body and Squirrel shouted in glee.
“It’s a wooden construct!” He said as he hurriedly joined his dark friend’s side in dismantling the now fully burning farcical creature.
Darkon’s face flushed red from relief and a bit of embarrassment. He’d been truly frightened when he saw the construct falling upon him and his companions. Still, he felt confident his earlier feeling of dread had not been born by the facsimile. As he stooped to pick up his discarded torch, which barely yet burned, he noticed a figure standing at the sloping tunnel mouth. Hastily he whispered toward Galen and nodded toward the figure as he held his torch out to further illuminate the area.
An old man with patches of white hair and pale, wrinkled skin stood staring in horror as Shadow and Squirrel joyfully dismantled the smoldering false dragon.
“You!” He suddenly screeched. “You killed my dragon!”
Confusion was obvious on both of the young men’s faces but the old man persisted.
“That’s my dragon! Now you’re going to have to pay for that!” The old fellow threatened.
Finally Squirrel and Shadow heard the man and promptly stood beside, or in Shadow’s case behind, Darkon and Galen.
“All of you must pay, now!” He then held forth his right hand and held it toward the young men, as if truly expecting them to hand over some sort of payment.
They were all dumbstruck. Obviously this mad old man had built the dragon facsimile but how he’d made it steal oxen was beyond even Squirrel’s ken.
“Good man,” Squirrel stepped forward and began, “We made an error in judgment and must apologize. My friends and I mistakenly assumed your dragon was real. Whatever the cost for you to build it we will gladly repay but we hope you might tell us where the true dragon lairs if you could.”
Squirrel’s respectful manner clearly pleased the old timer for his face put on a gap-toothed smile.
“Dragon?! There’s no such thing as dragons!” The old man cackled heartily with delight, truly amused that these young men actually expected to find a real dragon.
Squirrel’s nerves got the better of him then. Before him he had an old man mocking him and behind him were two dangerous warriors he’d assured there would be a monster to fight. This was not turning out the way he’d expected. Thankfully, Shadow recognized his friend’s discomfort and again interjected for him.
“Listen, you old fool! If there’s no dragon then what’s been carrying off the oxen of Thelebes?”
The old man’s eyes went wide and his laughter halted. “The grounders.” He whispered harshly.
“The grounders?” Darkon echoed questioningly.
Another voice, this one deep and dry like rocks falling down a mountainside, said, “Aye, the grounders.”
Behind the old man, out of the slick tunnel’s depth, came a group of short and stocky warriors. Each one held a hammer, axe or pick in his mailed hands. They had short, thick beards and wore tough looking iron armor. They kept coming out of the tunnel, not slipping upon the slick tunnel surface at all, and surrounded the now grim faced old man.
“Half men!” Galen spat in disdain.
“No! They’re dwarves.” Squirrel sternly retorted.
“That’s right. We are dwarves.” The apparent leader of the angry looking cadre stepped forward. His beard was gray and longer than the others. His helmed head concealed his face but there was no mistaking the dire threat in his tone.
Shadow apparently decided at that tense moment that it would be a good time for him to disappear but as he stepped back into the growing darkness he was suddenly shoved from behind and hit the ground face first. Another dwarf placed one foot on the thief’s wiry back and grinned meaningfully at the other three men.
“No escapes today, humans.” The dwarf croaked.
The next few moments became a swirl of chaotic activity. Galen rushed the dwarf who had Shadow pinned down while Darkon took hold of Squirrel’s arm and pulled him toward the opposite side of the murky chamber. Shadow strained with all his might to push himself off of the ground. Not expecting the rushing warrior’s attack the dwarf was thrown aside. It proved a lucky turn for the stout dwarf since his sudden fall was all that saved him from Galen's blade. The sword’s tip whistled past the grounder’s head.
Shadow quickly stood and began running with Darkon and Squirrel toward the only exit. Galen hesitated to follow, instead turning on the dozen or more dwarves and making a show of standing in defense. Screaming at the top of his lungs and swinging his blade haphazardly to and fro, all the while he took careful steps backward. The dwarves obviously wanted to pursue the fleeter of foot humans but Galen’s stance left them confused. Their hesitation proved their undoing as Darkon reached the previously trapped doorway and called for the brave prince to run. Making one final thrust at the closing dwarves Galen did just that. Axes and hammers somersaulted through the spot he had been standing in and the dwarves took up the chase.
Shadow and Squirrel were prepared for the grounders and after Galen came running through the doorway they slammed the heavy table and a chair each against the now shut door. They left the pile and followed Darkon after Galen. Running on into the daylight they went directly into the tree line where they’d left their borrowed steeds. They could hear the dwarves cursing from the opening and Shadow warned of their coming with a shout.
As they reached the tree line it was Galen who exclaimed, “The horses are gone! What do we do now?”
The prince had been trained for combat nearly his entire life and did not relish the idea of retreating from anything. With no steeds to hurry their escape he clearly contemplated fighting the dwarves off. A sudden heaving shove sent Galen sprawling forward and he barely kept his footing. Darkon had read his stance and knew he was going to have to force his friend into continuing their retreat. To stay and fight would have been foolish. The now furious dwarves were steadily streaming toward them, cruel weapons in hand and screaming for human blood. Running was now the only option.
Run they did. They ran and ran until they no longer heard the grumbling curses and crashing bodies through the wild growth. In fact, the two warriors had run so determinedly, they failed to notice that Shadow and Squirrel were not running beside them. They slowed only when they realized the terrain they had been careening through was unfamiliar and not the land they had passed through to reach the hollow hill. They were going most likely away from Thelebes while their two new friends were heading toward it. This would not have occurred if the horses were where they had left them.
“Where did they go?” Darkon gaspingly cried.
“Don’t know! Someone stole the horses! Must have been the half men.” Galen replied as he came to a slow halt amid the trees.
The dwarves must have given up their chase for no sound of pursuit could be heard. Galen wanted to call out to Squirrel, in hopes of locating the mage and his sly comrade, but Darkon warned him against it.
“Those dwarves were too short to catch them with or without horses. They are as safe as we are.”
Galen laughed and said, “They’re probably halfway to Thelebes by now.”
Darkon smiled and nodded in agreement. After the humor of the moment passed though, they realized what that meant. Darkon had lost his bow in the hill and they both had lost their reward by their retreat. Galen smiled and announced that he had never given his still full pouch of gold back to Squirrel. As he reached to his belt he found he was wrong.
“It’s gone!” He exclaimed, holding a severed leather string in one hand.
Darkon looked surprised but that soon melted into understanding. “Shadow.” Was all he said but that was enough to throw Galen into a rage of fresh epitaphs.
His cursing and stomping rang out through the thinning forest and Darkon feared he would cause the dwarves to find them.
“Come now, my friend! We have been bested and tricked and even robbed but still we have our lives.”
Galen heard him but words alone would not cool his temper. “I’ll kill them, by Ares!” He angrily swore.
Darkon took on a serious demeanor and said, “Ares knows you could defeat both of them at once. I doubt honor would be done if you did.”
That calmed Galen for the moment and he turned his gaze to Darkon and asked, “So what do you suggest we do then?”
“What was the name of that place you were taking me to before we were sidetracked?”
“Havoctown. It’s called something else in the Slavic tongue but I cannot relate it to our tongue well. All that matters is that in that place there is constant havoc. Our feeble friends most likely would not have lasted long there anyhow.”
The matter was settled then. Darkon merely started walking south instead of east while the prince put his hands on his hips and watched him go.
“You’re going to just let them get away with what they’ve done?” Galen asked.
“Them? No, just Shadow. I doubt softhearted Squirrel still has any gold left. Besides,” Darkon called back without turning around. “Wasn’t there a reason you didn’t want to go back to Thelebes?”
Silence.
Without another complaint or curse Galen fell behind the grinning Darkon and started walking. Together they walked without further incidence, purposefully avoiding any of the villages they sighted on the horizon, onward to Havoctown.
Weeks later they arrived at the small village Galen renamed Havoctown. The name Havoc until that moment had seemed incredulous to Darkon. No more when he saw it for himself. The noise of the place was intimidating. So many people crowded the several stalls and shops the two had a hard time making their way to their destination. The houses had long ago deteriorated into deteriating sheds. Though families did actually live in them it was clear most of the residents spent their time outside in the shops and working the nearby crops. There was barely a discernible pattern to the town. It all seemed to be built on one long dirt road with the canvased stalls clustered in a circle near its center.
Tending the several animals, both visiting horses and native farm animals, were a small, chubby group of tiny folk. Believed to be half human and part fearie, these people were the most peaceful in the lands. Reaching up to only three and a half feet tall they were also the most gifted with animal and plant life. They were a great neighbor to have when crops were having problems or when the animals needed care. Still, in a place like this they were quite a surprise.
Passing what appeared to be the local tavern, calls rang out from the upper balcony from willing wenches. Handsome prince Galen, himself over six feet tall, lightly tan skinned with sandy brown hair and athletic build, already seemed to know them. A few of them waved and called to him in particular.
He waved in return and gave a wink and smile as he said to Darkon, “Many a fine wench, my friend, but not a one to bring home to mother.”
Darkon, already gaping at the sights and sounds was even more astonished at the gaudy, barely dressed women. This made Galen laugh even louder.
Soon they arrived at a small stone structure painted all over its surface with many strange symbols and religious depictions. Clearly this was the home of a priest of Silvanus, a god of nature. Galen simply walked in, as Darkon stood uncertain at the doorway. Eventually he entered and was greeted by the strong smells of incense burning and another sour scent he thought he may know.
Windowless, the home was dark. Barely lit by candles and cracks from the doorway an older man, plump yet full of life, sat watching him as his eyes adjusted to the light or lack of it.His features were hidden beneath a deep hood. His cloak smelled like dead animals and Darkon tried not to show his revulsion.
He then said, “Please, sit down young man and tell me your problems and perhaps Silvanus will grant you reprieve.”
Sitting, Darkon told everything he remembered up until that moment. “I don’t know what you can do for me but I am grateful you would so readily see me.”
“No matter, your friend here has taken care of any payment this shall invoke. I will cast a simple prayer of healing upon you, eliminating any damage that remains. This will not immediately return your memory to you but should speed the process.”
Standing, the priest began a low chant and pulled something leafy from his pocket. He then pressed the object with his forefinger to Darkon’s forehead. A greenish glow began to pulse first on his hand then forefinger, then lastly to his patient. The leafy object was gone and Darkon found the constant clamoring in his mind had quieted. Letting out a sigh of relief he relayed this to the priest, thanking him fervently.
The priest though seemed preoccupied with his finger and began running his thumbs over Darkon’s forehead. “Something is on your skin. I’m not sure...it would be easier if you had bathed recently.”
Galen rose and stood beside the older man and asked, “What is it, Kolleb?”
“I’m unsure but its covering what appears to be a scar of some sort. Hand me a candle.” Taking the light closer to Darkon the scar was revealed. It was a perfect rendering of a letter in an archaic language lost to antiquity. Galen and the priest recognized what it was instantly. It resembled a complete circle with a V placed on the upper part of the shape. The very first letter in the word “Demonslayer”.
The priest’s mood suddenly shifted. Hands trembling he muttered, “By Silvanus this cannot be! You are truly a Demonslayer!?” His voice rose in excitement or was it fear? “This is not good! You must cover your head boy and let none see this scar! If word gets out of your whereabouts, hunters and mercenAres will come for you!”
Before he could finish, Galen interrupted and said, “Surely you are not well, Kolleb, the Demonslayers you speak of are only legend.”
Though even as he voiced this Galen knew Kolleb was right. Legends were started somehow, usually with a root of truth.
“There is no time to argue, Galen, you must take him out of here. I do not want any trouble! Please, now go!”
Handing Darkon a black strip of cloth that he tied about his head covering the scar, the priest ushered them out with haste, slamming the door and barring it when they were out. The two stood staring at one another, surprised and stunned at what they’d learned. Galen recalled many fireside tales he’d heard of the Demonslayers but always thought them to be just that, tales.
Darkon was at once elated and stricken with fear. If he was being hunted anyone could be his hunter. He looked about the marketplace in a new light, this time with trepidation.
Galen spoke first, saying, “That clears up some questions, my friend!”
Darkon couldn’t believe Galen still wished to accompany him.
“Still you would befriend me, Galen? Know you that I would hold nothing against you if you wish to go your own way. I do not want your life to be threatened because of me.”
Galen smiled ironically at this, “Know then this Darkon and understand. My royal blood in these lands is a prime target for the same sort that would seek you. I too could be endangering you’re life by my presence alone. So think no more of my leaving. You are as stuck with me as I am you. Besides, your predicament will surely fetch some glorious adventure.”
They both laughed and clenched grips in an iron agreement, each man knowing by the look in the other’s eye that they had a bond now none would break. For the glory of adventure and the righteousness of their blood the men forged an alliance held fast by their unshakable honor.


CHAPTER 3
ARA’MOOR


The woods of Ara’moor. A mystical land covered by ancient trees and inhabited by elves, fearie of all kinds and one, often ignored half elf. Half elves were normally shunned by the elves but this one was an exception. Sevele the beauteous was one of the very rare elven trained half elves. She was one of the great exceptions though still forbidden to bear a last name or any titles proclaiming her a friend of elves. Life had not been easy living alone in these woods. The one thing she did have on her side when dealing with the haughty elves was her unbelievable beauty and personal allure. No elf can ignore beauty in any creature or thing, and Sevele was no exception. Her innocent golden eyes, bouncing waist length greenish black hair and five foot eight curvaceous figure were a force to be reckoned with at any ball.
Yet Sevele had never been to any ball or even a party. Since her childhood she’d lived under the protection of all the folk of the woods. Under the training of elves as a mage she’d only recently been made a guardian of the wood and allowed free reign throughout Ara’moor.
She was patrolling the borders when she first saw him. He was tall and his hair as black as night. Eyes a cold, cold blue and his thick muscular frame spoke of his strength in battle. He walked with a casual readiness, eyes always searching and hand never far from the sword at his side. Sevele was so enchanted with the sight of him she did not even notice the man beside him. Not even when that man saw her and pointed to her hiding spot. At this, the man she could not stop staring at looked directly back at her. She yelped in surprise and suddenly remembered her training. Bolting back through the thick willow trees she left the two far behind.

^ ^ ^

“It looks like your frightening appearance has chased off the locals again.” Galen said.
Appearing not to notice the ribbing Darkon replied, “An elf, I think! She was incredible! We must follow her.”
“Follow her? Why?”
Galen had heard many stories of men being lost in Ara’moor after foolishly following a beautiful fearie into the trees. He did not want to be counted among them. Darkon had no answer for him, he could only run. He felt he had to meet this woman. He needed to hear her voice.
Sevele ran as well, right past the place she had run to when that group of goblins had chased her a winter past. Goblins were small creatures with warty green and gray hides. Though they bore considerable claws and teeth they often employed clubs or daggers. When she’d led them past a small grove they had went into it but never came out. She did not want the man with the ice eyes to never come out as well so she waited just beyond it in the tree line. She hoped to make sure no harm would befall him, or his friend, as Darkon came over the ridge and headed toward the well lit area ahead. Into the grove they went and she skipped quietly closer to keep the pair within sight.
The clearing was about forty feet in diameter and plenty of sun lit its breadth. Sunflowers surrounded a stone crypt like structure that sat in its center and filled the air with their flowery scent. Inscriptions covered its front and two doors met to provide entrance. The most surprising thing though, was not the scenery or structure. A large creature sat perched atop the crypt. It had the body of a large spotted lion but the head of a bearded, middle aged man. It also had wings with brown hawkish features and a tail that was at least seven feet long and covered in scales. By it’s slithering about one could easily see it was flexible and would serve well as a weapon. This was not a thing one would hope to meet in so lovely a glade. Indeed, Darkon and Galen froze in their tracks, unsure whether to draw steel or remain still. Sevele was almost as surprised as they but she had seen this creature before.
Darkon was just reaching for his blade when a voice jolted him. He was sure no one spoke as no lips had moved. The voice, he realized, was in his head.
“Hello I say, halloo!” The creature had been speaking for some time and was beginning to think these men were dumber than goblins.
Speaking aloud Darkon said, “Is it you who speaks in my mind?”
It remained silent for a moment, regarding the two.
Eyes shimmering with purple and red hues in the sunlight it spoke again in the minds of the two men. “I am glad you are astute enough to realize I am no mere beast. My name is celebrated throughout the woods of Ara’moor. You may call me Nelle’ Jvar and I welcome you both to my humble arena.”
Galen spoke then, “This surely is unlike any arena I have ever seen.”
Darkon agreed, nodding in silence.
“Alas, that my adventuring friends, is because this arena is one for the parlaying of words, not swords. Of bargains made and pacts signed, of questions answered and of quests completed.” The human face spoke with all the civility of any human being of noble lineage.
Quietly Darkon commented, “You speak in glyphs creature.”
Nelle’Jvar almost ruffled at that and replied, “Play no games with Jvar, dark one. I sensed your ability when I read you’re thoughts earlier as you entered the glade. I know you have forgotten your past and you’ve also, I sense, forgotten about your abilities.”
Darkon looked at the creature in confusion as it continued, “At that I will leave you to consider what you would be willing to give me in return for your memory.”
Purring at that last statement Jvar smiled contently and began to lap with its human tongue his furred flank.
Galen shook his head saying, “I have heard that sort of talk in one other place. My father’s court. Beware this trickster, Darkon, for he probably seeks to steal your soul! Let us kill it and be done here!”
At that Darkon looked to his friend, surprised at the callousness at which Galen spoke of killing the strange creature. He thought that regardless of its appearance it had every right to live unhindered by them.
“No, Galen! It has what I need. Speak your peace Jvar and be as honest as your crooked tongue will allow.” He replied.
Finishing his grooming Jvar smiled and said, “This stone construct is a doorway to an underground complex. Created long ago by an unknown mage, many creatures now call its depths home. There are two other entrances. One is controlled by a young dragon of which I’d stay clear if you value your lives. It lies to the south and is marked well before its underground opening at a tunnel mouth with a huge yellow eye. The other entrance is held by a deep dwelling race that is called the Bealrotti. They are a fierce race with protruding muzzles and fur covered bodies. They are skilled with weapons and are quite numerous so beware them as well. I tell you these things because you could serve me by retrieving one of the few artifacts that lies hidden in the depths below. I seek the spear of Bailick. I know its general location so you must merely avoid the monsters below and bring it back to me. Simple, no?”
“Yes, strange one, it sounds too simple to be possible.” Galen mocked.
“Well, I must do as you ask Jvar. In return you’ll restore my memories and also explain your words about my abilities.” Darkon couldn’t believe his luck!
Three months ago Galen and he had left Havoctown to find adventure and hoped to find a cure for his problem. Even though priests and medicine men both claimed he should have his memory back by now, he did not. They had been on their way back to that town to restore Galen's supply of coins. Darkon had been given no convincing explanations but now he had a way right before him. He was not going to miss this chance.
He clenched the hilt of his sword with one hand and slapped Galen’s back saying, “Besides Galen, we came seeking adventure and now we have it!”
Galen could only sneer menacingly at Jvar and say, “Know this! Betray us or cause us harm and you will regret it at the end of my blade.”
Shrugging off the comment Jvar spread his wings as if stretching them and spoke an alien word. “Icarle!” Then, slowly, the twin stone doors began to slide open.
“Now, if you enter, our deal is sealed. The doors will remain open during the day but at night the risk is too great and you will have to wait until dawn.” Jvar explained.
At this Galen angrily looked at the sky and said, “Do you mean to tell me that if we were screaming for you to open the doors you would not let us out?”
Jvar nodded and said, “You understand, of course. I must keep this exit secret or every one of the catacomb monsters would come by looking for prey or as you call it, adventure.” Jvar puffed his feline chest out to reinforce his words.
Before Galen could retort Darkon held his palm up before him and said, “Galen, I must do this. If you do not wish to join me stay here and make sure Jvar lets me out when I get back.”
Galen would not have that. “Oh no! You’re not going anywhere without me. Not when it comes to adventure. Let’s do this thing then and maybe we'll play some games of our own when we return.” Smiling at the magical guardian Galen made a slight nod that Jvar solemnly returned.
Just as they were walking toward the opening a voice, a mystical, musical voice called to them. “Wait, please go no further!”
It was the woman Darkon had thought must have been a fearie trick. No woman, elf or otherwise, could be so radiant. When he saw her his heart thumped in his chest and he could not move as she walked within normal speaking range.
As she stopped before him he said, “Sweet lady, please tell me how it is you are unaccompanied in so dangerous a forest.”
Smiling gently Sevele replied, “I need no protection here. I am Sevele, a guardian of these woods.”
Darkon smiled back as any man would under barrage from such undeniable beauty. He could not believe she was not a queen or princess. “Sevele, I am Darkon and this is my comrade, Prince Galen of Genossia.”
Galen bowed, as he did so often at his mother’s galas. Sevele had never seen the likes of it before but found it amusing.
She said, “Then Darkon, please, before you waste your life by going into that foul place, hear me.”
Darkon heard the determined nature of her plea so nodded his assent.
“This place is full of horrible creatures! Jvar's original task was to lure evil beings into its depths so they wouldn’t run loose in Ara’moor. Through time it is said the place has become full of cohabitating monsters.”
Darkon was impressed with that description but really didn’t care. He was a Demonslayer. He wasn’t exactly sure yet what that entailed but he’d remember well enough when he came out with this spear of Bailick Jvar wanted.
He looked into her sparkling golden eyes and spoke, “Sevele, this deed I must do. For my own mind is at stake. I must recall my past and this riddling creature has abilities no others possess. I have no real choice, no matter the risk.”
At this Sevele’s face seemed pained and Darkon almost reached out to her. Instead he inhaled and exhaled deeply, taking in her enticing scent. With this memory of her he would surely return at all costs. What he hadn't considered was that as he and Galen turned and walked toward the doorway, she would follow. It wasn’t until they had stepped fully into the chamber beyond that they turned and found her standing grimly behind them.
Galen spoke before Darkon could, “My lady, please, you must return to the open air. This is no place for one so fair.”
Darkon nodded in agreement.
At this Sevele grew angry. She had run alone through these woods forever. No one was going to tell her where she could or could not go.
Her mind made up she replied, “I go where I please, Prince! Now I please to go with you both! Like it or not I am staying!”
Folding her arms across her healthy bosom the men noticed for the first time the exquisite chain mail armor she wore. Links so close together it seemed to be one whole fabric open at the throat to reveal a delicate neck and a shining star pendant. It covered nearly all of her body. A slim elven blade sat at her hip and several knives were tucked here and there about her person. Many pouches lined her belt and outer jacket and she also carried a small wand.
Looking at one another, the two men acknowledged her seeming astuteness. Surely she had more skill than with just a brush. Nodding, they accepted her beside them and continued toward the descending stairway lit by the outside sunlight. As they walked down its length a screeching metallic sound pierced the silence. The stairs seemed to give way as they went flat. Leaving a smooth chute they could not gain footing upon. They had no other option than to just slide down on their backs. As they circled a thick support column while spiraling downward they began to hear a noise approaching swiftly below. A roaring, rumbling cacophony they could not avoid.
A swirling waterfall met them half way down the chute and the sudden cold shocked their systems. The body of water that rushed to greet them as the chute disappeared from beneath their plummeting forms was black and frothy where the water spilled into it. Sevele’s surprised scream was all any of them heard for that seemingly endless moment before they smashed to the water’s surface. There was no true light but glowing reflections from cave growth and subterranean creatures and they quickly became separated in the confusion, though Darkon found himself clinging to Sevele’s side. He could barely swim and his heavy armor threatened to drag him under but his concern was with Sevele. Indeed he would have drowned if not for the log that was drifting by that allowed him to gain some leverage and tread the water. When that log suddenly revealed itself to be something much more dangerous than simply floating debris he lost that leverage and sunk swiftly beneath the surface. Sevele, determined not to lose sight of Darkon, dived after him, and after her went the mysterious floating creature.
A distance away, barely keeping his armored body afloat, Galen heard only a foreboding sound that brought to mind the grumble of a hungry beast. He was a master swimmer and that was all the help he needed to convince his limbs to push him faster toward what he believed was the waters edge.


CHAPTER 4
IT TAKES A PARTY


Graton was sure he’d heard a splashing sound. Here, in the catacombs of Ara’moor, that was not easily believed. Any being who knew of the tunnel’s inhabitants would never leap into the small lake. The huge amphibious monster that lived there would swallow anything it could, alive or dead.
Graton was an elf from the family of Griffon lords who kept watch over the skies of Ara’moor and served as messengers between the kingdom’s of elves. He was considered still young among his kind being only ninety four winters old. His ability with a spear was what had brought him here. His family sent him to seek the spear of Bailick.
Bailick had been an elf as well but not from this world. His spear was said to be one piece of an entire set of relics he brought with him from his home world. Graton had long dreamt of finding these items and now he was close to gaining the first part. Though, he decided, he would first investigate the splashing.
The tunnel mouth he stood in had four tunnels adjoining it. Two were heading south and the other two north. The walls were damp and reflected the light of his torch. Heading south by the second tunnel he moved swiftly in the darkness as only an elf could. Moments later he heard more splashing and this time screams. Exploding out of instinct into a full run he soon came to the underground lake. The tunnel he moved through was ten feet in height and two men could move comfortably beside one another. Experienced delvers would call that spacious. The area he moved into then would be considered massive. The lake was a half mile in diameter and the ceiling rose forty feet in some places. Stalagmites reached well below the water’s surface and the water was black as night and still as death.
A groan of pain alerted him to the man lying on the small narrow shelf that lined the wall around the lake. Silently approaching the man without alerting him, he tapped the human’s shoulder as he groggily peered toward the water. At first Galen didn’t move, half expecting it to be Darkon or even Sevele.
Then Graton said, “Are you well? Was anyone with you?”
It wasn’t Darkon.
Galen could only do what was pure instinct bred from long training. Grab a weapon and attack.
Using his shield as a weapon he lunged toward the elf saying, “Tell that thing to spit out my friends elf or I’ll take your life as payment for theirs.”
Graton could understand the human’s confusion after loosing friends in such a manner.
“I am sorry for your loss, human, but I have nothing to do with that creature.” Graton would be patient with this one. He placed his spear’s blunt end outward and put Galen to a safe distance.
At every lunge Galen met a thunk on the head. Elven speed always overcomes poor weapon use. A shield wouldn’t even win Galen this battle so he changed tactics.
“Elf, I believe your innocence but can you aid me? My friends may yet live.” Galen wouldn’t even consider the possible death of his friend, Darkon.
Graton knew he would have to handle the situation delicately. He nodded to Galen, “I am Graton, a Griffon lord and I came here seeking someone who needed help. I have two spells I may use to…”
Cut off in midsentence Graton stopped and Galen followed his gaze to the lake. There he saw a shape, coming in slow. A short time later it closed to a discernible distance and a voice was heard calling out Galen’s name. It was Darkon and Sevele, they lived!
As the huge makeshift raft bumped the wall the land bound warriors realized it was no raft at all but a huge water dwelling creature. Split down its gullet, it was slain apparently from the inside. The prince held out his hand and lifted his friends out of the stagnant water.
“Almost had me and Sevele,” Darkon explained, “but I kept thinking I could get to my sword and cut out of it. I couldn’t get to my sword and then it happened.” He appeared unsure he could explain with words what had occured. His haunted look only made the prince more curious.
The ever impatient Galen then pleaded, “What? What happened?”
Darkon couldn’t withhold such information, not from the man who had saved his life. Not to mention the man who financed every bit of they’re travels.
Holding his left arm up Darkon said, “My arm became a sword.”
Sevele stood quietly at his side and nodded, adding, “Also, I heard his voice in my head. It was the only thing that kept me conscious.”
Impulsively Sevele reached for Darkon and tightly embraced him. Still shivering from the icy water he returned the embrace. Galen could only stand by. Clearly more occurred than he would ever truly know but he was glad to see them both alive and in good health. Then he remembered Graton the Griffon lord but only because his friends stared past him over his shoulder.
“Ah, my friends, I had forgotten! This is Graton, he was going to help me rescue you.” Galen held an arm toward the elf.
Bowing, Graton said, “Lady Sevele is a legend of sorts among the elves of Ara’moor. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
At this Sevele appeared startled then almost embarrassed as she peeled herself from Darkon’s strong grasp.
Straightening her mail coat she managed a sort of curtsy as she said, “My lord, you embarrass me. It’s my pleasure alone. Your family is said to be among the most honored and respected of elves.”
Before Graton could respond Darkon interjected, “Your aid would have been appreciated. I am Darkon Demonslayer.”
Holding his hand out to the elf as if to make a warrior’s clasp he was taken aback when Graton did not return the offer.
Though Graton did say, “Your skill must be great for never before have I heard of anyone living after a meeting with this beast. Though it never truly allows for a fair fight.”
Crooking the forefinger and middle finger of his left hand, Graton raised his hand over his head and followed with a shrill hawk like cry. Goosebumps shivered among the three companions.
Sevele quickly explained, “Lord Graton has given you a great tribute. That is the cry of the great golden eagles of Ara’moor and is given to only their greatest warriors.”
This time Graton and Darkon bowed toward one another causing Galen to further lose his patience. “All right, enough of this! Let us move away from this lake of death and get you two dry. We’ve only just begun this adventure!”
Taking up the torch he had lit earlier Galen headed down the tunnel from which Graton had come. As the others filed behind him Graton wondered if he might stay with this trio of adventurers for a while.
It wasn’t until they reached the tunnel mouth he had stood in when he’d heard the cry for help that Darkon approached him saying. “It would please me much if you would join our quest, Graton. Safety in numbers has its benefits.”
Graton readily accepted and said, “It would please me as well, yet I must make one request. Just that my own quest might be added to yours. You see, I am seeking an item of great importance to my people. It has been hidden from us for several hundred winters and only recently was it placed in this dungeon by a prankster fearie.”
Darkon replied, “Of course! We know already that the item we seek is on only the second level of the dungeon, where we are now. It will be a simple matter to continue on.” Darkon did not notice the confused stare Galen gave him. The prince did not recall being told that the spear was on the second level. How did Darkon know that?
Graton seemed to lose some of his excitement and asked, “How is it we are so lucky? My quest lies also on the second level. Would it be an affront for me to ask what the item you seek is?”
Seeing where this was going Darkon spoke quickly, “Jvar the guardian sent us for the spear of Bailick.”
Graton then chuckled and a more musical sound the two humans had never heard. Truly elves were fey creatures.
Graton’s laughter subsided and he said, “Of course, Jvar would never allow me this one small victory!”
While the others stared back blankly he smiled ruefully and began to explain, “You see, after having discovered by magic the location of the spear I came to Jvar seeking entrance. Only having to tell him my tale and what I sought in these tunnels he granted me entrance. I should have known he wouldn’t allow it to be so easy for me.”
Sevele spoke first saying, “I see also. You would have to contend with a trio of reckless adventurers as well as the usual inhabitants.”
Darkon nodded saying, “Now I fear my quest may never be fulfilled. For my gift in return was to be an unlocking of the recesses of my mind. Only Jvar seems to have any understanding of my problem. Only he can actually look into my thoughts.”
Graton truly looked saddened at this but it was Galen who said, “Fear not, Darkon. I am sure we can complete both quests still. Did not Jvar say we merely had to bring the spear to him?”
Eyeing Graton's seven foot long spear and smiling mischievously he winked at the elf who then smiled in understanding and added, “Poor Jvar. He knows not what the spear looks like or what powers it wields. Yes, friend Galen, we may finish both quests yet!”
Sometime later, having traveled throughout most of the catacombs’ second level the companions now four had finally located the spear of Bailick. Goblins roamed in abundance throughout the tunnels. Several times the group crossed paths with wandering bands of the small rubbery creatures. Sevele and Graton had fervently attacked the vile cave dwellers for goblins were known to be mortal enemies of the elves and their kin. Graton often recited elven battle poems as he slew one after the other. Sevele merely took most of her kills by daggers thrown through the throat and eyes. Grim and disturbing as her methods were Darkon could only admire her efficiency. Galen was so swept up in his own bloodletting he never truly took notice. Little would distract him from goblin killing.
Soon they all took positions around an area of four tunnels. Each tunnel crossed in a manner to make a square. Two humanoid creatures guarded a door that led into that square. Both were near seven feet in height and were hugely proportioned. Their bodies were covered in a grimy, matted brown fur. Their faces resembled humans but were accentuated by almost canine, protruding muzzles. They reeked of sweat and rotting food, as did the area they’d claimed as their own. Four small rooms were in the outer walls surrounding the hundred feet deep and fifty foot wide square chamber.
Sevele whispered a phrase of magic into her cupped hands and before the eyes of her companions she began to fade and blend with her surroundings.
She again whispered but this time to her friends, “Await my return.”
Moments later Darkon felt a gentle hand upon his arm and almost let out a startled yelp. With the touch Sevele phased back into view crouched next to him. The spear, she reported, was in none of these chambers. As bad luck would have it the spear was in the main room past two guards and among the community of these savage creatures. Graton explained that they were called the Bealrotti. They would eat anything they met so crossing them was very risky. Their lack of discipline was the foursome’s best advantage, as long as they could quietly dispose of the two guards.
To do so Darkon would, from one tunnel, attract their attention while from another Sevele and Graton would creep toward them, Graton using the magic of his fey cloak to keep him concealed. As long as one moved quietly and stood against the background one could sneak up on anything while wearing it. It was said that any non-elven race that donned such a cloak would be smothered or strangled by the its magic. Of course, no one had attempted to steal one in a very long while. Indeed the cloak did the job and the elf and half elf came within striking distance of the guards. They each plunged slim elven blades through the creature’s lungs so no sound could escape their lips. Darkon and Galen then rushed forward from the shadowed corridor and cleft the Bealrotti heads from they’re shoulders.
Sevele looked at the two men incredulously and asked in a harsh whisper, “Was that really necessary?”
Darkon held a finger to his lips as Galen placed an ear to the door. Graton untied his spear from its place on his back. Sevele was never proud of bloodshed and hoped none of her new friends were either. Only Galen seemed to relish any victory in battle no matter the extent of carnage. Sevele formed this opinion when she witnessed him slay a helpless goblin. He seemed to take personally his delivering the creature to death. As if cutting it into several indiscernible pieces would gain it speedier entry to the Abyss and he would be granted a higher place in his god’s realm the more furious his attack.
Darkon counted as Galen guessed at the numbers judging from the sounds of the room’s inhabitants. Holding up one hand to the door and one before his friend he would point in a general direction, twice for further on, and hold up the number of fingers equal to how many Bealrotti stood in one area. As Galen finished, Graton repeated his actions as if not trusting the human’s judgment. Their calculations were about the same except for one larger group of more than ten.
Graton said, “They are all asleep. They may be children or prisoners, therefore I suggest one of us hasten to them immediately. Either way we all know what must be done.”
Darkon agreed, as did Sevele who strung her bow and counted arrows. None of them wanted to slay any of these creatures but the fact that they were vile and malicious made the choice much easier. Children though, were another story. Still young they could act only as they were taught. Their deeds were no more their fault than were the deeds of the crocodilian that attacked Darkon and Sevele in the deep lake.
Slowly Darkon pushed open the door. Having put out the torches outside the door so no light could alert the Bealrotti within, looking in for a small moment he immediately shut the door. He then turned to the others wide eyed and motioned for them to follow him away from the door. Following, even Galen remained silent until they were a safe distance away.
Darkon then whispered, “I believe we miscalculated.”

^ ^ ^

Merleptus was a cautious mage. Though he was very powerful in his command of magic he knew he wasn’t invulnerable. That is why it was from a magical pool that he watched these newest adventurers make their way through the catacombs of Ara’moor. He liked what he’d seen thus far. The four each had distinct personalities and or abilities that made them more than just another party of treasure hunting fools.
No. These four had purpose. The thick muscled one called Darkon sought to recall his heritage, to return to his rightful place. If only he knew his own people had enspelled him to lose his way in order to protect him from their enemies.
The swift tempered, consummate swordsman obviously trained among the masters of the south, sought honor and glory. All to impress a father who even now was being dethroned. Merleptus smiled at the thought of Galen given the focus of revenge to bolster him. He would be a force to be reckoned with!
The elf lord was of special interest to him because of their common ability with spell work. Though still inexperienced, Graton had awesome potential. A pity he squandered his studying time for training as an elven warrior and griffon tamer. If he would concentrate fully upon wizardry his potential could be realized.
Lastly there was Sevele, who unlike Graton had no special reason for being in the tunnels other than a wanting to belong. Her elven training was obvious but her wizardry skills were only average while her greatest assets were her secrets. Indeed, Merleptus knew of one secret only because of his scrying pool. He had watched one night as she’d stealthily crept upon a group of veteran explorers and stole everything that they considered vital for their quest. Thus she sent them away from Ara’moor. Sevele was an accomplished thief, unknown by the elves who allowed her to stay in their mystical forest. Trained by sprites to spite the haughty elf folk she was unmatched in both cunning and guile.
Yes. This was a strong, well rounded company and they had come together by accident alone. Merleptus had been seeking such a party for a mission he would fund and oversee. Yet he knew the overall character of this group would make them wary of his purposes and unlikely to join his cause. Though there were ways to endear oneself to heroes. One must simply know the right words, the right manner and more importantly, the right face.


CHAPTER 5
EXTERMINATION


“Impossible!” Graton whispered in agitation.
He took great exception to the suggestion that his elven senses were wrong. Galen understood Graton’s trepidation but knew Darkon better than he and believed him.
Darkon reiterated, “Double those numbers, I think, but know this. The uncounted ones are all children!”
At that Sevele gasped aloud, aghast at what she had almost done. Attacking the Bealrotti to her was no longer an option. She instead saw this, shrewdly enough, as an opportunity. Now she would find out what kind of man Darkon truly was.
Coincidentally, Darkon was thinking the same thing. He wondered if he would normally not do the creatures harm or if he would relish the needless slaughter. He knew that right now he felt he could have no part in the slaying of children. Children of any race or any species he could not possibly harm.
Graton though had seen things the others had not. In these very tunnels during his younger years of fifty or so he’d found an item of sorcerous origin. Using a simple spell that cost mostly in the form of sacrificing personal wealth, one needed a ruby to complete it correctly, Graton read the item’s entire past through mental images and accompanying sounds.
The story was long indeed but the most important part of it now was the last owner’s death. A death, cruel and repulsive, the man was eaten alive. Then only after watching the sadistic torture of his female companion. When she was completely devoured he watched as his legs were sliced into slabs and handed out. As he screamed, the Bealrotti laughed. It was the couple’s final misfortune to stumble upon a pack of young who were out playing in the tunnels.
Graton saw these creatures as pure evil. Such things that prey on other sentient beings were perverse and a blight on the world. The foul Bealrotti should be eliminated from the entire area, yet how to relay this convincingly to these three well meaning adventurers? This would be possible if someone here could mind touch. Then he remembered Darkon and Sevele’s account on what occurred at the lake.
It could indeed be that Darkon had not only lost his memory of the past but also his propensity for the mindflow, or as Graton’s people called it, Gaea’s’ eyes. Many elves were born with some kind of ability that was a gift from the gaze of Gaea. The elves believed that Gaea gave the gift if she saw fit to view one’s spirit before it was even born. One would be graced by “Gaea’s’ eyes”.
Yet strangely, when humans were born with the mindflow, though much more rarely did that occur, they were often given several abilities. As it seemed Darkon could indeed have been.
Knowing no other way to complete his quest Graton told Darkon, “Read my mind and I will lead you to a memory of mine that will make you change your thinking on those Bealrotti children.”
“Read your mind?” He repeated. “What makes you think I could do such a thing?”
Darkon's denial was obvious, as was Sevele’s look of hope. She thought he could do it. Galen looked on, confusedly shaking his head. No one could read anyone’s mind if you asked him. Only rare creatures like that Jvar thing.
Though he admitted, “Jvar did say something about your forgotten abilities.”
At this Darkon closed his eyes as if searching his mind.
He muttered, “Strange occurrences have pointed to my having some unexplained powers. As you see I’ve learned to turn my arm into a sword.”
At this he held up his left arm and just after the elbow was the steel blade of a sword. He then let it return before all their eyes to fleshly form. Everyone gasped in amazement, even Graton. This was not like any power an elf was granted. Then he felt the tickle in his mind, right behind the eyes as Darkon clumsily prodded his thoughts. Meeting voice to thought, the two men could converse and the elf led him to the specific memory he mentioned. The twisting passages of the mind were extensive so Graton kept quiet control of any stray thoughts thus avoiding any possibly dangerous occurrences.
Soon Darkon found the specific memory and recalled Graton’s vision as if it were his own. A pained gasp escaped his lips as Sevele clasped his hand. In doing so she inadvertently became an unwilling receptacle between the two minds and also recalled what Graton had so long ago seen. Halfway through she could no longer stand it and broke contact with Darkon’s hand, thus separating her from the mindflow. She broke down in tears and fell gasping to her knees.
As they broke contact Darkon went to his knees beside Sevele saying, “Such visions are not meant for one as pure and kind as Sevele. Her heart is too bright to even conceive such thoughts.”
To her alone he said, “Have strength, Sevele, for I think we’ve found just cause.”
Standing with two fists at his side he said, “Know this Galen, if you like, I can allow for you to see as well what those beasts are capable of but as a friend I would not suggest it. You may instead take my word for it.”
Galen was not one free from nightmares so chose to take his word for it. Even the pure of heart Sevele could not voice a defending word for the Bealrotti. To her they were beasts worth only the dust in the air. Better to be blown away. At this collective thought everyone peered at their belts to the two oil jars prepared with rags to set afire the main Bealrotti chamber. Sevele had found the jars and more travelers’ supplies in the four outer chambers. The only question now was, could they?
Sevele broke the silence, “If we must do this then let it be as quick as possible.”
All nodded in grim agreement as they turned to go back to the storerooms where the Bealrotti kept their plundered items. More oil jars would be needed. Soon it was agreed Graton would come in first using his spear to create a distance between them and the Bealrotti and then the attack began.
Several adults were awake and moving about the main living chamber when the door was slammed open and the fierce elven warrior strode boldly into their midst. Two large males charged, each wielding a rusted and blood encrusted sword. The other adults formed a protective circle about the young on the far side of the chamber. Slicing the throat of the first to reach him with the very tip of his perfectly balanced spear Graton rolled under the wild swing of its partner. Coming swiftly to his feet behind the second he crushed its skull with the lead capped butt end of the spear.
The room was spacious though it was hard to tell. The clutter of garbage, broken items like chairs and braziers and the large number of Bealrotti made it seem crowded. All of these factors made it a perfect place for a fire. Galen exploited that by coming in next and hurling the first volley of two lit jars. They exploded leading to a great fire and greater panic. Next was Darkon, two more jars, Bealrotti ignited. Bealrotti screamed. Sevele covered the door tossing one jar only twenty feet in front of their party. She then separated the young from the old with her next jar. The older beasts were left before them and they began to gather what weapons they could reach and charge their cruel attackers. Their effort was admirable but the unorganized and frightened creatures had no chance against the prepared warriors.
From Darkon's swift and powerful double bladed attack, arm as sword and right arm bearing sword, to Galen's sweeping, beheading swings and Graton’s piercing, impassable spear, the four were an unstoppable force. Sevele felt almost unneeded as the three warriors worked in so natural a manner and were victorious wherever they attacked. She was found needed a moment later though as she was the last defense between Darkon’s back and a skulking young Bealrotti. So short, the youngling should not have been able to wield a full sized sword but it did and did so well. Its speed was still hindered by the weapon’s weight and after only two feints Sevele punched a dagger through its skull.
Soon all of the jars were used up and most of the beasts were dead or dying. Only a few stragglers hovered between flames and tried to survive. They could not. The smoke spread swiftly and they suffocated. The party retreated to the hallway outside the chamber as they waited for the flames to die down.
All except Darkon watched from the doorway as the last of the foul creatures died. Clutching the sides of his head an image flashed in his mind. The noise that accompanied it brought him to his knees. Sevele knelt beside him to see if he was well but a booming voice that erupted from behind them all drowned her voice.
It said, “Alas, another race of creatures wiped from our world.”
Everyone spun about as a robed figure appeared just beyond the doorway. It was a human man of middle-aged appearance with a full dark beard and head of hair. His dark eyes showed nothing but an obvious curiosity and to all of them the man had the appearance of a friendly priest.
Graton spoke loudly to surpass the noise in the crackling and burning chamber. “What know you of the Bealrotti?”
“I know they were the last of their kind on this world. So hidden here in the catacombs of Ara’moor for centuries they lived at their most natural state, unhindered, until today.”
The man shook his head ruefully and took a step toward the room.
“Hold stranger, you didn’t mention your name or your reason for being so close to Bealrotti territories.” Galen recalled old teachings from ancient masters, always take proper measure.
At that the others steeled their grips on their weapons and stared hard at the stranger.
Smiling congenially the man spread his arms in a peaceful gesture and said, “I am called Merleptus. I am a mage of some knowledge. I have spent most of my latest years studying and recording the various peoples of our world. An hour ago I was in Ara’moor to glimpse the two races I have studied here in the past, the Bealrotti and the slowly declining Elves.”
Graton visibly winced at that. His people had been on the decline for many years. Withdrawing from their homelands and gathering in the larger more remote areas. From these places their mages and priests sought to find a way to leave this world for one more hospitable. More precisely a world where humans weren’t the dominant peoples. Humans had the annoying habit of killing anything that wasn’t like them and elves had been no exception to that. They were so successful at secreting their people away from their lands many other races thought of them as legends already. This human was a rare exception.
The mage continued, “Now it seems I was fated to witness the snuffing out of a species. May I ask, adventurers, why it is you have invoked such carnage?”
Confronted with these words guilt swept through the group. How could we have known they were the last, they wondered? Had we known would it have changed anything? None of them had any words though so they turned their attention to the burned chamber and watched as the last flames flickered away.
Galen put away his sword and began to search through the carnage. He instantly began to hack and cough as he tried to brave the smoke.
Sevele and the Griffon lord joined him as Darkon spoke to the mage. “If you’ve finished then Merleptus, we have a quest to complete. Or if you’ve a mind to aid us for a moment perhaps you could magically remove the smoke from the room.”
Then Darkon smiled. His instinct proved correct as with but a wave of the wizard’s hands and an unintelligible word an intense gust of air, originating from nowhere, blew through the large chamber. The smoke cleared, leaving through the doorway and the debris began moving back against the far walls. The four adventurers crouched down and kept their squinting eyes on Merleptus. Unsure if this was his aid or a precursor to an attack. Soon though the room was cleared, only ash trails smeared the floors arching toward the walls and only the heaviest of items resisted the wind. These were a score of intact corpses, the four companions and a single, long iron chest. Ten feet in length and two foot in height and width, it had been blackened by the flames but remained largely intact.
“Yes, of course. These foul creatures would never have been able to touch the blessed spear of Bailick. So would have placed it somewhere it could not have harmed anyone.” Graton rasped from an ash parched throat.
They surrounded the chest, seemingly forgetting Merleptus whom slowly approached them from the doorway. Sevele immediately checked the latched chest finding it not locked but partially melted shut. The latch was of a weak metal so it was a simple matter to pry it apart. As it opened a blue glow bathed the room in a haunting light. Galen stepped back as Graton lunged for the spear in excitement. Darkon looked on, hoping the elf remembered their plan.
Standing, Graton held the weapon out for all to see. “This is it Darkon, the spear of Bailick itself! Both our quests are complete. Let us leave these darkened hallways and return to Jvar.”
It was nearly seven feet in length and seemingly made from crystal. Glowing bright blue Graton uttered a single word and the light winked out. The etchings along its shaft were of elves and griffons, stars and moon. The blade was formed from silvery steel unmarred or nicked in any way, as if never used. Clearly of elven make none disagreed that its rightful place was with Graton. Darkon’s throat was dry already from the blown ashes and his earlier exertion but he could feel it tighten and constrict even more in nervous anticipation. Finally his past would be revealed.
As they prepared to exit the scorched chamber they turned to Merleptus. Quietly observing he stood, arms folded before him, and waited.
Darkon moved to the front of the group and gestured toward him saying, “What of you, Merleptus? What will you do now that no more Bealrotti live in these tunnels?”
Merleptus did not answer but withdrew a large glass decanter that was wide at the opening, from his robes. “I will now collect a sample of their kind as proof to any questioning person that they truly existed.”
They watched as the mage unceremoniously severed a hand from a young Bealrotti corpse. He plopped the hand into the decanter and replaced it in the sleeve of his voluminous robe.
“Now I will return to the surface and ask you to join me. After you’ve completed your own quests, of course.”
“Join you?” Darkon asked.
Smugly Merleptus turned, “Yes. You see, there is one other reason I come to these ancient halls. I sometimes require the aid of others in completing my studies and it just so happens I am in such a need now. Though I do sense your personal quests may cause the disbanding of your party I am sure the price I am willing to pay will gain everyone’s interest.” He began walking out the door and toward the tunnels beyond.
His words did their work though as the four newfound friends each exchanged glances. All of them, for their own reasons, found the thought of separating so soon discomforting. They had worked so well with one another after knowing each other for so short a time. The looks between Darkon and Sevele spoke of even more than that.
Seeming the least concerned by the mage’s words Graton said, “Mayhap you should linger a short while then for as yet I believe our fates are undecided.”
The others looked to him, then all nodded in agreement.
“Very well, Griffon lord.” Merleptus said bowing grandly, “I shall indeed linger. Perhaps we should appoint a time in which I shall seek you out. At that time I shall explain everything to you and give you the initial payment. I recognize you may need some time to rest and recuperate after a long day of slaughter.”
Darkon looked askance at his companions and they all nodded. He looked back to the mage and said, “Give us a month.”
Merleptus smiled broadly and bowed once more. Then with a wave of a suddenly appearing staff that glimmered with magic, the mysterious mage disappeared.


CHAPTER 6
TWISTED ACCOUNTS


Two men argued elsewhere in the catacombs of Ara’moor. One was an elf, nearly six feet tall and of near perfect features he represented the most noble and arrogant of the elven folk. Called Cann-Dar by his people he was from the most elevated of families. Rarely outside of the cities did he hire others to do his lower labors so it was common that he traveled alone. Today he found himself at the finality of a quest he had been pursuing for years. It just so happened that his luck had seemingly dissolved at the finding of the spot he now stood before.
Standing right on top of his goal, which was buried six feet below the floor of the rough hewn chamber he was in, was a most foul tempered dwarf. Most dwarves to Cann-Dar were foul and distasteful creatures, not worth considering. Yet when one was so in your way you could not avoid him one must deal with the ugly creatures, one way or another.
Slaytor was unhappy. A treasure left by his father’s father left him with a map to this very spot. He was about to start digging when blast it if an elf of most irritating demeanor did not just appear and demand he leave the treasure to him! Elves to him were the most annoying and stupid of races. The dwarf’s four foot frame was as wide as a tree. His long curly hair laid roustabout on his head as if he’d just awoken from a five year sleep. Huge callused hands held a mighty dwarven war axe, well nicked from battle. Slaytor knew he should be done with this elf before he lost his temper and hurt him.
“Elf, I’ll tell you one time, and by the earth one time alone, be gone now or I might lose my temper.” The Dwarf accentuated this statement by smacking the haft of his axe in one meaty palm.
Cann-Dar smiled derisively and retorted, “Dwarf of horridstenchia, land of the foulest dwarves, I demand you leave from my presence at once! Lest I loose mighty magic upon you’re stony brow.”
He was sure dwarf’s feared magic, especially elven magic. Of course only a haughty elf would believe something as foolish as that.
Still, Slaytor felt that he should be able to reason with the frail looking fearie since it probably wasn’t able to swing a sword to defend itself anyhow.
He said, “Listen, ye skinny fool! Since we both hate them goblins ‘n such maybe we should make an agreement of some kind, involving you leaving…preferably.”
At the mention of goblins, a long time unspoken of treaty was invoked. Though it was seldom discussed it was one of the oldest treaties in the world. Everyone hated goblins. Their foulness and repugnancies, added to the fact they were evil, made even elves and dwarves ally with one another. The only things those two races had in common after all was a basic goodness and respect for the land, and they hated goblins.
Cann-Dar was stumped. He never thought a dwarf would invoke the treaty first. In all recorded incidences the elves were always forced to invoke the treaty first in the face of dwarven stubbornness. Having no way to skirt the issue he had to agree. Slaytor smiled triumphantly as the elf’s shoulders sagged and he nodded his assent. The dwarf immediately grabbed a nearby shovel and began to dig through the tightly packed earth.
Speaking as he dug he said, “Name’s Slaytor. My father’s father left me a map to this spot. I don’t know what lies in this dirt, but I will split it fair and even.”
Cann-Dar only nodded as deeper and deeper dug the canny dwarf.
It wasn’t long before the hole was deep and a small black chest was handed up. As the dwarf climbed his way out of the hole the elf cast two simple spells. The first to check for magical wards and the second to open it. When the small lock sprung loose from the chest the dwarf ducked out of reflex. He’d seen many traps in his day, even on small chests such as this one. When the lid was opened both men held their breath. Neither knowing what it was they were anticipating. Both were hoping for something that would help their causes. The red glow that exuded from the thing in the chest kept them both silent with wonderment. About as large as three hands fully spread was a rune beaten from some of the densest iron either man had ever seen. The rune was a symbol or character of unknown origin or meaning.
Cann-Dar picked it up from the chest and said, “I will need time to decipher it and study spells that may aid me in understanding it. Whatever it is, dwarf, it comes from an age before my people’s rise to civilization.”
Slaytor could only stare slack jawed at that. As far as he had been told and his father before him, elves were the first to come together in a society. That was a begrudgingly accepted truth among his and other races. If that was not the truth then who were the first and what power did they wield to so long ago smelt this iron and the eerily glowing magic held within?

^ ^ ^

Somewhere very far from Ara’moor an aging priest sat at a fire. In a state of mind to feel the very essence of the world he felt and saw more things in one day than others would in a lifetime. Today he shuddered and nearly fell when he suddenly felt a presence of great power reentering the flow of the world. A presence he’d trained himself to recognize. A presence he felt could prove to be a final hope for his people.
His name was Krosten, his people, Slayarians. More than seventy winters seemed to barely touch him, and he looked no older then fifty. Garbed in a felt cape of religious celebration he was the last high priest of his kind. Beside him were eight young Demonslayers. Each of them had been left hidden in different lands to be saved from the wars that were prophesied to occur during their childhood. Besides the old high priest these were the last remnants of an entire people. Already, two of the children he had set out to recover were gone from their homes. He knew the urge to adventure and discover was irresistible to any young Demonslayer. None could resist these urges as long as they could swing a sword or cast a spell. He considered it luck alone that brought these five safely to his care for he had only just gathered them in recent months and several more remained to be found. Finally they understood the mark on their heads as the priest explained everything fully and truly to them.
Now though, another purpose was about to interfere with his progress. He must recover the artifact of his gods, the symbol of the Demonslayers. Once long ago placed at the southern gate of the city called Slayaria it generated an impenetrable sphere surrounding its entire expanse. It was the treachery of demons that stole away the symbol. Without it the Demonslayers, already outnumbered and hunted down until none lived beyond those walls, were vulnerable. The numbers of the horde of evil were vast beyond measure. Equaling, Krosten had guessed, every creature in the Abyss and earth that hated the Demonslayers. Demons, humanoid races of evil, and creatures of the fabled underworld, all attacked that fateful day. The Demonslayers fought well and a few managed to escape alive. He was the last elder and he was gathering the young. Now he had a chance to recover Slayaria’s pride.
The eight youngsters were still overwhelmed at being told that twelve years ago Demonslayer sympathizers had fostered them in. This information did seem to focus them a bit. This sounded more like a quest. None of them had been on more than one adventure, but adventuring they could understand. They’d each dreamed their entire lives to be famous adventurers. Now, Krosten put to them a challenge and spoke of honor, hope, and glory. They would indeed find the symbol of their lost people and take it no matter the risk, no matter the trial.

^ ^ ^

The stealthy half elf led the way through the tunnels back to the surface. Sevele knew the direction they were heading because of her affinity for Ara’moor. The opening under Jvar was inaccessible so they went north where the trickster mentioned an entrance that was guarded by Bealrotti. They knew that no guardians would remain. It still took time to find the entrance as it was well hidden. It lay shadowed in a cubby above the cavernous floor. Two huge tunnels came from the south and one smaller opening went north. The cavern bowled upwards and downwards as if it was once a water filled bubble in the earth. The hidden entrance led to a long stairway to the surface. Taking it they all relaxed greatly when the open sky was once again above them. None of them mentioned it while they were underground but the presence of so much earth above their heads was very disconcerting. Gathering their possessions they headed south to bargain with the wily Jvar.
With Graton hiding nearby but far enough that the mind peering trickster wouldn’t sense him, three confident companions entered the clearing once again. Darkon had tested his mindflow ability on the way out of the tunnels. He learned how far one could be from him before he could no longer reach their minds and found that when they were out of his direct sight they were out of mind’s reach entirely. Also he told his friends to picture only specific things in their minds to see if he could peer past the focal thought. That also he could not do. Only if he was allowed access could he get inside their minds. Or, when one was totally unaware of his attempts and their thoughts were unfocused he could glimpse deeper. Thus they found a base understanding of the abilities Jvar possessed and knew now how to avoid his seeing through their deceptions. Thinking only on the death of the great monster from the lake they would not only keep him unaware of their tricks but also possibly intimidate him with the knowledge that they had already slain one great beast.
As they entered the area monitored by Jvar they caught him unaware. He was half dozed and purring contentedly on his stone perch.
“Ho there, Jvar!” Darkon boomed, “We have returned and your balance is to be paid!”
Holding Graton’s original spear of ash wood and fine steel before him he tossed it point first into the ground just before Jvar's perch. Awake now, Jvar narrowed his sleepy eyes and looked without a word toward them all. Searching their thoughts he could only find the death of the creature of the lake. Raising up on all fours and stretching his powerful wings he seemed to consider taking his leave while he could. Perhaps he feared these newly confident creatures would decide he was fair game as well.
Warily he looked toward the spear before him. “You did not enter here with such an item so I must accept your word on its authenticity.”
Trying once again to reach the party’s thoughts he looked from one to the other hoping to find an opening. There was none.
“So dark one, you wish repayment and Jvar always pays his debts. To properly do so we will need to be alone, for our thoughts alone can break the barrier in your mind. Your friends may watch from beyond the clearing so as not to interfere and also if they would, prevent any other interruptions.” Jvar said.
Thinking on it for a moment Darkon found these to be reasonable requests and nodded at his two concerned friends. Though Galen trusted Jvar not at all and Sevele wanted to stay by his side, they acquiesced. They walked to just beyond the edge of the clearing. There they could still see he and Graton as well who was perched high in the limbs of a tall spruce. If Jvar did try anything unfriendly these three friends would be quick to stand at Darkon's side.
After a time of Jvar making his own mental preparations he began to instruct Darkon on how to do so as well. “Now, clear your thoughts, Darkon the Demonslayer. Clear it of all images and feelings and words. Clear it and bring only an empty, dark wholeness around yourself.”
On and on Jvar droned, boring the three watchers but bringing Darkon to a state of mind he’d never known. On and on he droned until the blackness did come. The emptiness around Darkon showed how he was truly one with everything and everything was one with him. Darkness then became a focal point on which he concentrated.
Seeing only darkness he heard Jvar say, “Now I stand before a barrier in your mind. Only you can open this barrier. I can guide you to the correct actions, the correct thoughts. You know who you are and have rediscovered much of your character and personality. Your mindflow has begun to reopen due to necessity. Now, all that remains is to recall what you are, why you are, who you should be and would have been. Open yourself to the darkness you perceive and know that it is not truly darkness at all. It is but one small fragment of the entire picture of 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 the slain form of his foster father on a pile of dead men, most of which were from the invading force. The man had fought well and he should have been proud. Yet his breath left him, his eyes burned and his throat constricted. For the second time in his life he’d lost his family. He screamed a pain filled bellow that spoke of such torment and sadness that every still surviving clan member stopped their own mourning to witness his. Tears were their only reply, their only embrace. He looked around and found he looked upon strangers. Once again alone, though he had come to know almost every Dunnaburough, he felt an unexplainable, irresistible urge to flee. Tearing at his father’s clothes he took the kilt along with the scabbard and pouch full of copper coins.
Kissing the beloved man’s pale brow Darkon whispered, “I will see you on Anghar's battlefields father.”
He then took the great sword his father had so diligently maintained and ran full bore down the hills never to return or see his foster folk again.

^ ^ ^

It was in tears and deep sobbing that Darkon had awoke from his remembering reverie. Sevele the beauteous was leaning over him, comforting him, his head resting on her lap. At once he realized joy at finally remembering and sorrow at what he’d recalled.
Later the four companions quietly sat around a campfire. None were willing to disturb Darkon's solemn silence. All knew he must work through the emotions of the past so he could deal with the present. All the while Sevele sat at his side tending his every need, only nodding his thanks to her. He found himself roiling with conflicting emotions. He knew now that after he left the village for good a spell was triggered that had been placed on his mind. Krosten had cast it as a safety measure. He had not had his memory in two and more winters. When a passing carriage had struck him he assumed it had been the cause. Instead the impact seemed to have shaken his memory loose a bit and he recalled things. As time went on the spell weakened and he recalled even more. Still, the specifics were not open to him, until today.
Now he thought of leaving immediately. These three people he had befriended were not involved. He could not shake the vision of men screaming in horror at the sight of him and his scar. He knew he was a hunted man and he did not wish to endanger anyone else’s life, for he might lose them as well. Looking at Sevele he felt strong emotions for her build, though he had known her for such a small amount of time. Galen, he felt, could be a worthy companion for a life of adventuring. Yet he suspected he would not have the time to waste on quests that meant nothing to the Demonslayer cause. Darkon felt the weight of responsibility, as he knew he could very well be one of the few remaining Slayarians. Krosten could have come for him this very season, maybe even this very night for all he knew.

^ ^ ^

Slaytor agreed for once with Cann-Dar. Something either very strong or very resourceful had been in these tunnels recently. The carnage left in the Bealrotti tunnels and the huge carcass in the black lake was stout evidence of that! The two uncomfortable companions followed a trail left by a party of four persons that led to the northern exit. There they ascended the stairs and reached the surface.
One relished the open air, the other cared very little. Cann-Dar was coming to accept Slaytor's presence and learned that when he spoke less so did the dwarf. To the elf that was all the better. So it was that they quietly left the catacombs of Ara’moor behind. Seeing where the trail of the four strangers led they took an opposite route. They did not want to meet the group that would commit such horrors as they did to the Bealrotti. They decided to circle back and head south, hopefully skirting the unknowns.
Later that night as they camped on the outskirts of Ara’moor, once again the two argued. “Now Elf, you know we can’t split this thing up like any normal treasure, so of course I’m going to go with you! I still want what’s coming to me. After all…”
Cann- Dar then interrupted the blustering dwarf. “Yes, yes, Slaytor. For the eleventh time I heard you before. Your father’s father handed that map down to you. Yet again, due to your incoherent rambling I must ask you please, what were those words on the other side of the map and were you told anything at all that could help us figure out what this relic is?”
Cann-Dar’s elven patience was being sorely tested for the dwarf was more concerned with his share of profit rather than the history of the iron cast rune they’d found.
Finally Slaytor did calm down, luckily missing the comment about incoherent ramblings among his own muttering and said, “I remember my father telling me the tale of it but it’s been a couple decades since then. It went something like this…Know you my sons’ sons that the time to be sending your own kin to find this treasure will be known by the albino bat flying over your head. So said my own priests, who were the ones that made this map. They said they were told of a future hiding spot where no treasure now rests. That’s all I remember elf and now my head hurts.”
Laying back and resting his head on his pack Slaytor tried to recall more as the elf pondered what he had been told.
Thinking aloud Cann-Dar said, “So they saw the future resting place of a non-dwarfish relic. Had they ever done something like that before, Slaytor?”
At this the dwarf sat up and answered, “That’s the really strange part about it. Never have any dwarves, as far as my teachings go, been able to look into the future before.”
Cann-Dar finally agreed with Slaytor, which was very strange indeed. He had never heard of such a feat either, not from dwarves. Slaytor cared little for pondering. As far as he was concerned he should get what’s coming to him now. He did as his ancestors bade him and now he wanted his reward. Lunging for the relic he grabbed an end of it in his thick hand, but Cann-Dar's elven speed would not allow him to snatch it away. Grabbing the other end he tried to wrest it from Slaytor's greedy grip. Yet, just as the dwarf prepared to pull back with all his considerable might something happened. A flash of light stopped both of them where they were. Then another flash as they felt something strange inside their skulls, a slight tickle or brushing of their minds. They exchanged incredulous looks, each thinking that the other was responsible. Both realized then that this was something else and they simultaneously looked to their grips and the relic they held there. Recognizing the magical light emanating from it they immediately dropped it, and as it hit the forest floor each of them remembered.
They remembered one another and they even recalled what the artifact at their feet was and what it meant to the both of them. Both men, proud and stubborn, arrogant and disagreeable, both knew without a doubt that this had been a fated meeting at the tunnels of Ara’moor. For not even a decade and a half ago these men, dwarf and elf, were allies, nay, friends. They were the best of friends and as unlikely as it was it was still so. Two men who earlier could not stand the other’s presence then did the unconscionable, they hugged. A fierce warrior’s embrace that reaffirmed a mutual respect and an unspoken agreement. They would never allow their paths to part again.
They separated themselves abruptly, almost embarrassed at their behavior. Imagine an elf and a dwarf the best of friends! Slaytor would let this kind of show of emotion happen only once in his life.
Immediately he fell back into routine, as well as he remembered it anyway. “Alright elf, you know what we must do.”
The elf knew, and he answered, “Let’s go then, my friend. Let us find Krosten.”

^ ^ ^

In the land of Gaul of Europa there was a small kingdom called Genossia. Small as it was no other kingdom within Gaul could match its armies. It had not seen war in over two centuries. It was the nearness to goblin-kin and trolls that kept her vigilant armies sharp.
A sprawling land, green and full of life, the people who lived there were quite satisfied with the family that had ruled them for centuries. That was about to change.
Long ago, Genossia’s king was challenged by none other than his own brother. The old king was kind and remiss about quarrels of any kind, especially with his own kin. Ignoring the king’s protests and pleading his brother demanded a duel. Or else, he pledged, he would raise an army and make civil war. Left with little choice the sad king acquiesced. A duel was then fought and even through treachery from his twisted brother the king was victorious, coolly beheading his vile sibling.
Once this occurred, his brother’s family moved to the far reaches of the kingdom, declining forever after any contact with the royal family. The sons of the treacherous brother and those after them plotted and schemed. They would not rest until they took what they wrongly thought was theirs to take. So finally after centuries of diabolical consortium and vile plotting, the second family had produced a son who they thought strong enough to take the throne. His name, Satar.
Warrior son of the evil sorcerer, Satarnafoon, he was prepared for the day of reckoning. His father’s magic and demonic servants had given Satar every advantage possible. Given a huge amount of magical items, he was layered in protections. Satar was over six and a half feet tall and powerfully strong through magically enhanced muscle. His hair was light brown and tied in braids that ended at demonic totems. He was armored in blood red plate mail etched with enchanted runes and his sword a great two-handed weapon aglow with yellow energy. His arms and neck exposed revealed archaic tattoos, words and letters in no language any human could have ever understood. In short this was a fearsome enemy but the worst aspect of this consummate warrior was his presence. So enspelled since birth, Satar gave off a constant wave of terror. Any lesser being not protected with the correct charms would flee before him as if he were a titan freed from Hades.
Thus he would be the downfall of the first family of Genossia, the fall of a way of life centuries old. Yet even he could not take control without a price. Sometime before, his father, Satarnafoon, had been banished from the earthly plane never to be heard from again. Not able to enjoy the victory he helped to create and not allowed to sit on the throne he helped vacate, his son would rule instead. Thus was served the chink in the first family’s armor. Powerful and skilled as Satar was, he did not have his father’s mind. Trained since birth for murder and destruction as he was, Satar was not even sane.
With his father gone, Satar abandoned decade’s old plans. He was sure he knew how to rule, even without his father’s guidance. His first improvisation of his father’s decrees were to send forth his loyal men to find the missing prince. Galen had been gone for some time and might even be dead or at least Satar hoped he was. For only Galen could challenge his rule and most likely only Galen could lead a rebellion, garnering his considerable reputation and charisma. Satar knew that for all his magic the prince was well trained and quite capable of ending his short reign as king. He also wanted to execute the royal family but was counseled by his advisors that they may still be useful if an uprising did occur.
Regardless, pure evil ruled now and a dynasty had ended. The only hope for the people of Genossia now was a long missing prince and few even considered that as a possibility. Satar sat upon the throne and even his own men whispered of his insanity. Often talking of how the king talked to himself and dictated to no one. Of course, none of those men ever took the time to witness the huge shadow that loomed behind him whenever he did sit upon the throne. If they did the whispers might have been of demonic consultation.


CHAPTER 8
RETURN TO HAVOCTOWN


About two weeks had passed since the expedition into Ara’moor. Darkon and his newfound comrades had built a small home for themselves on the outskirts of Havoctown. With one room made large for general use and three separate chambers for personal, it was a modest home that thanks to Sevele did not lack a feeling of home. She had decorated the walls with tapestries she bought at the market. They mostly depicted forests and animal life, which made it easier for Graton and herself to stay there. The main room boasted a large oak table Galen had won at the betting stalls of the local brothel. Each room had a bed and a chest for personal belongings and a window that closed by shutters. Indeed it was the most pleasant home in the seedy town and visitors were not uncommon.
Sevele still had responsibilities in the woods of Ara’moor but she always spent some of the nights with Darkon. The two had grown very close and eventually shared their first experiences with the ways of true lovers. Indeed both were as love struck as two people could be. Galen found the whole thing amusing and at any time he might call Darkon Sevele. He truly enjoyed the look on Darkon’s face when he would bow curtly and call him Lady Sevele, though Darkon never cracked a smile or showed the slightest bit of irritation.
Sevele on the other hand thought Galen was perhaps envious of the two and their affections for one another. She soon had the kind and thoughtful idea of introducing him to someone who would be worthy of a prince. Though Galen spent much of his time at the local brothel Sevele knew no woman there was worthy of him. She thought she knew what Galen’s kind of woman was so she went to town at midday to look around for a possibility. Anyone who would distract him from calling her Darkon would be very good. At the very least maybe he’d stop calling Darkon by her name. She was sure he was going to kill Galen eventually though she knew he never gave the prince the satisfaction of showing his anger.
Soon Sevele walked up the main road that cut right through Havoctown’s center. The activity that was constant here was jarring when they first arrived but she’d grown accustomed. Regular visits to Ara’moor often helped her re-center her thoughts and soul. Only by daylight would she walk alone through town for she knew well enough the dangers that were about at night. Even now the stares of dangerous looking men made her uneasy. Darkon would be angry if he knew she went through town alone but she could take care of herself. The one time a man had approached her she recalled, she handled it quite well. As he walked toward her with a frightening look in his eyes she began to speak in the goblin tongue, cursing and raving loudly enough to gain the attention of two dwarven warriors who were nearby. The man stood before her unfazed but the dwarves, who understood goblin quite well, tackled her out of nowhere. They were not exactly the results she’d been seeking but the strange man moved away.
Sevele laughed aloud as she passed by the blacksmith shop remembering how hard it was to convince the two goblin hating dwarves that she was not a goblin in disguise.
A high pitched laughter broke Sevele’s reverie as she neared the quieter section of town. Here was where the small folk placed their tents and plied their trades. Renowned throughout the land for their skills at carving figurines and weaving the softest fabrics the folk were a welcome guest in any town. Indeed in this rowdy place they were a god’s gift. She looked over the happy group sitting in a large circle bartering over small items and noticed one thing in particular.
Standing just outside the ring was a female of some race she had never seen before. She was barely five feet in height and her full figure showed she was no mere child. Her overall appearance was like that of the small folk yet she was too big to be one herself. Sevele was too curious to let it go so she eased her way toward the group. Some took notice and seemed about to protest but upon seeing her elven ears they quickly calmed.
She decided then that she should introduce herself formally, as was the way between fearie kind. Sevele stepped between two folk and entered the circle itself as she loudly cleared her throat. Gaining everyone’s attention she clenched both her hands before her heart and looked skyward, facing north.
Invoking the name of these small folk she held both arms wide as if soaking in the sunlight and spoke loudly, “Dear Che’burr, I am Sevele of Ara’moor.”
Whispers erupted among the Che’burr and Sevele heard Ara’moor mentioned several times. From the small folk’s ranks stepped an elderly man and the rest immediately quieted. Standing only three feet in height he was almost comical and Sevele could not help but smile as he approached her.
Holding his diminutive hands skyward he said in a shaking voice, “Sevele the beauteous, welcome.”
At that the rest promptly cheered aloud, for they had been given a new friend.
By knowing the small folk’s true race name Sevele had shown she was already a friend with other fearie. The Che’burr crowded around her and took her hands one by one in their own. Finally as the last one touched her things calmed down and the bartering resumed. She could now speak to any of the Che’burr she wished. Giving hugs to several tiny children she made her way to the tall Che’burr she had spotted earlier. She did prove to be one of them because she greeted Sevele as did all the others.
The girl seemed excited to be noticed and exclaimed an exuberant “Hello!”, before Sevele could say a word.
“My name is Rena.” She said as Sevele smiled.
This was going to be easy.
Putting a hand on Rena’s shoulder she said, “Hello there, Rena. Would you like to walk with me for a while and talk?”
Rena seemed elated at the prospect and quickly agreed. She explained the Che’burr were passing through and would do odd jobs and sell their crafts before moving on to the next town.
She also explained why she was so different from her people saying, “My father was away for a time and my mother was accosted by human bandits. I am the impure result of that horrible day.”
Sevele apologized but Rena would have none of it and said, “No need to be sorry for me, my mother and father love me no less and my time for finding has come. The only thing is, my parents are unsure if I should find a Che’burr or a human mate.”
“What do you want?” Sevele asked.
Rena looked to where her parents were to be sure they would not hear her and answered, “I think I want a human mate but I am afraid to hurt my father. He may not understand.”
Sevele understood all too well. The truth was she was concerned over that as well. Rena was pure and innocent. What human man would not take advantage of those facts and mistreat her because she knew no better? That’s when it came to her.
Galen would be taken aback at her innocence surely but he would definitely fall for the big green eyes and long silky chestnut hair. Rena was very lovely and her every feature was pronounced by her petite size. Her figure was not lacking in any manner and surely would gain the attention of any sane man. Sevele smiled, wondering just how sane Galen was. This was a beauty incomparable to any human woman she’d ever seen. Yes, Galen would never have a chance, and if he did mistreat her Sevele would castrate him herself.
It wasn’t long before she had them both introduced and within days they were walking together like young children, giggling and pointing at things they had seen many times before. They would sit upon the large rocks Galen and Darkon had placed in front of their new home and stare at the sky. She was very pleased at the princely treatment Galen showed to Rena and resigned herself to the fact she would not have to mince his manliness.
Darkon looked at the display and raised one eyebrow and asked Sevele, “Did we look that silly at first?”
Sevele only laughed taking his arm and pulling him into the large room of the house. The scent of tree sap still permeated the house and the two settled in for the afternoon meal. The weeks had been passing very quickly since Galen and Rena had met and Darkon often warned his friend to enjoy it while he could for Merleptus would be arriving soon just as the wizard had promised.
Indeed as they ate cheese and bread that day and Graton sat meditating at the doorway of his chamber they were startled to hear the elf suddenly speak, “He’s coming.”
Darkon asked the question though he already knew the answer, “Who is coming?”
“Merleptus.” Was his answer.
Darkon looked at Sevele and the two shared an uncomfortable moment. They had grown happy these past weeks and were unsure whether they even wanted this long awaited quest. Although the adventure through the catacombs was not harmful to any of them the mage had warned that this coming mission would require more care.
Darkon looked to the Griffon lord and asked through his mind, “How long?”
Graton answered in like manner and said, “Two days.”
Two days. Who knows what would occur during this next adventure? Not that any of them weren’t prepared. Every morning the three men practiced their fighting skills and occasionally tested them at the local tavern. At later times Graton would tutor Sevele in the learning of new spells and she would test them on any nearby dead trees or hapless known bandits who would often pass through town. Indeed they were ready, Darkon’s fears were unfounded and he knew it. His own affairs were what loomed over his head. He knew Krosten would very soon pass through Havoctown because it was a crossroads between kingdoms. Looking at Sevele’s beautiful face he, for a slight moment, thought of hiding from the priest. Yet he knew he could not avoid his destiny any more than death itself. He would have to go with Krosten but he would take Sevele with him. He knew she would have it no other way.
The next two days were spent well. Every moment between the two couples was relished and they did all they could together before the time was gone, but every good moment in life seems destined to end. When the time was over the four skilled adventurers were quite prepared and they steeled themselves for battle. Galen made all the necessary purchases at the raucous market and noted mentally that his funds were nearly exhausted and soon he may have to return home. Graton had successfully cast all the spells required to allow him to commune with the mighty spear of Bailick and they allowed him also to roughly determine the location of the remaining parts of the legendary Bailick. He found that they were not long ago scattered throughout the land but recently had been gathered by someone else and that person or persons had possession of those items even now, all except the spear of course. He resigned himself to the fact he may have a battle before him when the group returned from the mission Merleptus had for them.
Darkon and Sevele made pledges to one another, secure in the presence of the others. Still, Darkon was constantly brooding over his unspoken dilemma. If he left now he might miss Krosten so he left word with the small folk to keep an eye out for him. If he did miss him he would track the old priest down, resigned not to shirk his responsibility or the burden of his people.
At midday Merleptus appeared at the very doorstep of the new home.
They were eating a meal Rena had made for them when the mage stepped into their door and announced, “So I have come as I said I would nearly two full moons ago. My need is great and I have painstakingly prepared for your journey. I am prepared to grant you much, first for taking this quest then second, to reward your success.” He wore a large, black cloak that swallowed his body. His face was hidden in the shadows of a hood and his hands were covered by long sleeves.
As the four friends had discussed Darkon rose from the table and faced the wizard. Using the mindflow he then reached out for Merleptus’ mind. The mage soon felt the fingers of thought probing the foremost of his thoughts.
Darkon's mistake was in thinking the mage had never encountered the mindflow before, he was soon sorry for that. Merleptus filled his own mind with the horrible images of burning Bealrotti and the occasional beheading of their young. He was given full access to these thoughts and they struck him as a wave of guilt and remorse. He nearly fell over but stood out of pride and stared the grinning Merleptus in the eye.
“You were almost successful in invading my mind but I am wary to you now and will not be so vulnerable again.” Merleptus pledged.
Darkon said nothing as he slowly recovered from the uneasiness. He had felt that he should try to see the mage’s truths for his safety and especially the safety of sweet Sevele. He had anticipated that the mage would have some defense but he was determined to try.
Now the mage smiled again and said, “Now that we’ve got that over with my friends, I have come to seek your aid on a mission I myself cannot complete. With me I have brought an elder scroll. At a petitioners request it will produce a totem of magical power and I have attuned it to work once for each of you. I bid you to choose wisely for the item could mean the success of your quest.”
Allowing all that to sink in, the mage unraveled the scroll upon the oak table and paused a moment before continuing. “When the quest is done I will also grant each of you one thousand gold coins for your troubles. Also, anything you may acquire during your journey is yours for I seek only one thing. The Scepter of Fire. Know you that the Scepter is held by a powerful creature of the underworld and it will defend the item with all its strength and wits. I am confidant that you four will be successful but you will need all your skills to defeat the current lord of the Scepter. The only question being will your minds remain clear enough to allow success?”
Four minds worked to form pictures of the items they would need and Graton was more intrigued than anyone. He wondered if he could gain the entire Bailick with this elder magic though inside he knew it was unlikely. Through the teachings of his ancestors the elf knew that Bailick consisted of more than just one weapon and the armor. The legends of the otherworldly elf the relics had been named after told of a mystical sword and mentioned the spear as being a mere part of the armor itself. It was said the spear could be stored in its purest form, as untainted arcane energy. Remembering that only the helm would be necessary for that particular gift he concentrated upon its image.
Galen mentally pictured his tutor in his home palace in Mastalon in Genossia. Bele’ at the time had been his father’s closest friend and because of that the big warrior treated Galen differently than his other students. Bele’ taught swordsmanship to the sons and very rarely daughters of some of the city’s richest nobles. In addition to the conventional training Bele’ also held long discussions on technique and sometimes the types of foes his students might perchance come across throughout the land. Galen had been very attentive at those lessons and he knew that for a mortal to battle creatures like demons an enchanted weapon would be needed. Being a swordsman by nature he pictured in his mind a fine magical sword.
Sevele’s main concern was being able to escape if it became too dangerous in the Abyss. At one time in her life she’d feared leaving the woods of Ara’moor, having no knowledge of anything outside the forests’ borders. Now she was following her mysterious lover into a place beyond earth itself. The thought horrified her but she knew that she could not allow Darkon to see that. If he did, she knew, he would make her stay behind. Her fears expanded to encompass her friends and Darkon until she could not think of anything other than if things became too deadly they would need a way to escape.
Darkon was perhaps the least interested for he could only think that there was not a priest or shaman among them. What god would grant them magical reprieve from life threatening wounds they might sustain? He looked to Sevele and knew he could not bear to see her hurt in any way. Nor did he discount the possibility of one of his warrior companions getting hurt.
Darkon came to his decision before any of the others, running a hand through his thick mane he let out a sigh and said, “I know not what to ask your scroll wizard, but I do know we may need some magical poultice or nectar that will heal us when needed.”
Smiling warmly the mysterious mage spoke to the scroll directly saying, “Elder scroll, hear me now! Darkon wishes the Healing Salve of Noor!” So deep was his hood his features were hidden and not even a beard or length of hair was revealed.
With a brilliant red flash a small wooden container appeared on the table beside the scroll. The container was perhaps large enough to hold five gold coins. Merleptus explained the properties. “There are seven doses that must be applied to the palms to be applied correctly.” Thus taking Darkon's success as a cue the others quickly called off their own desired items.
For Galen there was a sword, Sevele a silver ring and Graton acquired another part of the Bailick. The helm covered his entire face and head leaving eyelets and gratings at the mouth. Shining silver etchings of griffons in flight decorated its crown and base. Sevele’s magical ring would transport all of them near to their home in Havoctown by command, one time only. Galen’s sword ensured through its enchantments that he would be able to harm any creature, including those from the underworlds of Tarterus and the like.
So as Darkon placed the Salve of Noor in his pack ever so carefully and Graton placed the helm on his head, which caused his spear to vanish, the companions followed Merleptus outside to a standing portal he had prepared for them. The doorway through reality would almost instantaneously transport them to their destination.
Though Graton was unshaken by his spear’s disappearance Galen questioned him about it. The smiling Elf placed both his fists together thumbs first and spoke an elven word. Slowly he separated his hands and as he extended his arms the spear appeared and became whole.
“With the helm I can now store away the weapon until needed.” Graton explained.
Galen slapped the elf lord’s back in congratulation then showed him how lightly his new sword danced through the air.

^ ^ ^

It was clear now to Merleptus that the time he allowed the four hired mercenaries together had been good for their bonding as friends. They had grown close and exchanged one another’s training, thus making each more formidable by far. They would serve him quite well, quite well indeed.


CHAPTER 9
A DARKER PLACE


Somewhere other than Earth a creature of great power and intense evil laughed. Standing ten feet tall upon a serpentine lower half with scales the color of ash, his presence alone produced an aura of fear. Built like a gangly man his brows were accented by two stubby horns that were the color of blood. His eyes shined a malicious yellow while oversharp features presented a diabolical visage.
He stood looking over a bubbling pool that shimmered with the image of four hardy adventurers who had foolishly entered his realm. Surely they knew not what they’d done so he merely watched as one after the other they met his denizens and fought them. Three times he was sure one would perish but one among them possessed some sort of healing agent that saved them. Indeed the one whose mind was closed to him, from this distance at least, seemed somehow familiar. Was it the feral joy he revealed every time he slew a dark creature of the Abyss or was it his appearance that struck as something familiar? The entity had lived countless eons so would sometimes take days to recall a particular memory. Still he remembered everything quite clearly eventually. He would be patient, surely these mortals could not slay every denizen of this kingdom in the Abyss.
This particular kingdom was one of the largest and that was because this creature was one of the oldest and most cunning of demon lords. So cunning that his status had climbed well beyond many more powerful lords whom were not so cunning. Indeed he often dealt with evil gods of every pantheon and had often garnered their support when an opposing lord sought to throw him down.
Four mortals were of little concern for one so connected except for perhaps amusement. He often did in fact enjoy involving himself in human affairs in particular. Nothing satisfied him more than the turning of a servant of good to the darker ways of his kind. How he would laugh as a druid of Gaea would slay newborn children in her name yet grant the pure souls to him. Parents willingly brought the trusted druidess their beloved children thinking their sacrifice would bring them success and good fortune. Instead only sorrow and guilt would find them and kill them from within.
He had many names, known in a hundred cultures and there were few beings and fewer things he feared. His countenance haunted children’s nights and adults would jump at shadows, never forgetting their nightmares. Yes, he would enjoy this small entertainment while it lasted, for some time soon he would have much more to do. The last century on Earth had been a prosperous one for the cults of evil gods and demons alike. Also, the forces of good had been dealt a mighty blow. The backbone of mortal defense against demon kind was defeated and annihilated. It was due to the cohesion between his brethren’s forces and those of the evil gods that it was accomplished. No such union had ever occurred before since those very same forces often warred amongst themselves more than against the forces of good.
For ages uncounted Gaea’s children and their mortal brood were the thorn in the side of evil alliances and the poison in their wine. Always, no matter what pawns were involved, the thrice damned Demonslayers would cut down the leaders and liaisons between planes. That would never occur again since his kind had been victorious and only awaited the word of the evil gods before they would swarm the rest of Earth’s kingdoms. No more would the soft mortals take precedence over their own concerns. War would once again rage across the Earth where all denizens of all the dark dimensions would meet.
That though would not occur for some time yet for the evil gods enjoyed their mortal pawns and they desired time to corrupt the rest of Earth’s people to evil. Then they would use the twisted mortal fodder in a war so grand in scale only the gods themselves could comprehend it.
So, he would wait and watch. With the Scepter of Fire in his hands, and the Demonslayers extinct, waiting would not be so bad.

^ ^ ^

Darkon hadn’t been pleased since they set foot in that foul place. The arid, dark, rock covered terrain was bound to maim one of them. They had been forced to retreat already, after two days journey, several times. Two of those times they had simply been walking across the land when a quartet of demons appeared out of nowhere. Immediately Galen and Darkon charged the things.
Darkon was forced to hastily explain to his comrades that demons exuded a level of fear according to their power. They had to learn that the fear was unreasonable and the demons were ordinary foes that could easily be destroyed. That worked to some measure but the demons proved that they were not ordinary in the least. Their forms ranged from all kinds of deviations and outright impossibilities. The more intelligent the demon, it seemed, the more humanoid its physical form but more fearsome its aura.
Darkon quickly learned what it truly was to be a Demonslayer. The mere presence of demons made his muscles spasm and bulge as his adrenaline coursed swiftly through his veins. As he formed the sword that was his arm he saw that it seemed to change its shape of its own volition. Whether it changed due to the power of the demonic foe or the stress and danger of a particular situation he did not know for sure. Still, even with his added ability and his friends’ bravery they had sustained three severe injuries. The first was a gash across Galen’s face that revealed the entire right side of the inside of his mouth. The prince had been so incensed that he did not even acknowledge the wound until Sevele gasped in shock. Luckily the salve of Noor was capable of handling such a wound and it did so without leaving a scar. The other major wounds had been sustained by Sevele alone. With great agitation Darkon would apply the salve to her, all the while he recited to her that she had been drifting too close to his battle and that she must realize that he intended to take on the strongest of the demons due to his inherent powers against them.
Black clouds moved at a snail’s pace and no wind blew. On the horizon a violet sun was setting but it never caused a change in the clammy, dungeon like air. As the sky darkened Graton brought forth his light bearing spear for no stars shined in this night sky. There were no trees, only some weeds and a few areas had thorny black bushes. Once, Sevele saw such a bush slowly drinking the blood from a still living, entrapped cat-like creature that must have gotten too close. After that, none of the four ventured near the abominations again.
Darkon was beginning to think there was no end to this wasteland when a line of what looked like trees appeared on the darkening horizon. They already knew they could not rest during the night for they had found that the time to do so was in the early morning when the demons were less active. They had to keep moving to avoid being ambushed during the complete blackness and also avoid roving bands of the foul abyssal denizens. So far their tactics had not been very successful for they often stumbled across a lone demon or even a pair. Darkon knew that no more than two could get along at once without the proper motivation and leadership. Both times they’d met four of the beasts there had been a progressive thinking leader. As long as they avoided the armies of the pit they would survive, that is if they didn’t starve. For nothing in the Abyss seemed to be edible to mortals.
As time passed and they knew the tree line they had sighted was within a two mile distance they rested for a time. Graton's spear served as the only light they could see by but it was also a beacon to the native creatures that someone was passing through. Talking quietly they readied their gear for the mission ahead. They knew that soon they should be finding a keep Merleptus had said would be three days journey. Though the mage had said nothing about any forest Darkon trusted his direction sense. He had found that he truly did not care what the mages purposes were as long as he was rewarded for his efforts. The gold the mage had promised would be useful in helping him facilitate the finding of his lost brethren and begin, if necessary, the rebuilding of a city. Secretly he often fostered the vision of himself and the beautiful Sevele at peace and alone with nothing but children to tend to and enjoy.
He would not voice those thoughts though for Darkon the Demonslayer knew enough about loss to not open his heart in so dangerous an environment. He was too aware of the fact that any one of them could be slain at any time. He watched as Sevele readied her many daggers and small, sharp missiles. Her graceful movements were so elven and her eyes so bright and fanciful. He knew then the feeling that stormed through his heart but would not, could not, proclaim it. It would hurt so much more, he thought, to tell her then lose her. Better not to tell her anything in case he perished and she would perhaps be as forlorn, for he knew well enough the love she felt for him. She had proclaimed it during the group’s sojourn near Havoctown. He knew she would stay with him now no matter what, and loved her more for it, though a small part of him screamed in denial, or was it rage?
He almost felt that at any moment he might run from her screaming. No pain was greater than that of losing one you love so dear. Darkon had lost two pairs of parents, not to mention an entire city worth of his people. He was adamant in that he would not follow his emotions. He swore to resist this painful direction his heart had taken him in, at least not yet.
Leaving under some rocks extra gear they need not carry Graton took the lead, staying twenty steps ahead of the group. Traveling the two miles to what they assumed was a tree line they began to feel something before they saw it. At first there was a twinge of paranoia as their minds went through several horrific scenarios. Then as they grew ever closer the twinge became actual fear and Darkon had to reassure his friends just to convince them to continue onward. Eventually pure terror filled each of their hearts, including his own. It was the first time he had been affected by the aura of the demons, but was it demons?
They peered into the impenetrable darkness ahead and inched forward always knowing they moved toward danger but were too entranced to do otherwise. Darkon, Galen and Sevele waited with bated breath as Graton slowed to within ten steps of them for the light to reach the source of the dread. Already in their minds they expected dead black trees, gnarled and twisted into vile facsimiles of true life and among them some mighty demon that allowed no mortal to pass alive.
Then, as Graton stood frozen the others drew abreast of him and gaped in horror. While Darkon felt only a facsimile of the burning tingle throughout his spine and out through his muscles that aided him in battle against his eternal enemy. The hard warrior had only felt this new sensation since arriving here in the Abyss, during those times he had faced demons. As a Demonslayer this was the normal reaction when facing his peoples hated foes but now it seemed tempered in that he could actually sense that whatever it was that was waiting beyond the blackness was not demonic in nature. Every other time he had prepared for battle and engaged the enemy demons, yet now it was as if his body put him on notice that he may not need the extra help now, but he soon might.
Thus it was with trepidation that Darkon nodded when Graton said, “Demons, an army of them!”
There were hundreds and hundreds of demonic beings standing in rigid formation as if prepared to march on an opposing land, but these beings were more uniform than the chaotic denizens of the Abyss that the four companions had seen so far. There was row after row of creatures with rusty red to coal black skin tones and small black horns that seemed to take the same shape for every separate unit. Clearly there were designated companies that bore specific weapon types and special duties.
Standing in front of the army was a nine foot tall, blood red skinned, muscle bound overlord. He carried a whip in one hand and a sword that was so huge in the other that only the largest of humans could have wielded it and then only two handed. It was clad in nothing but leather breaches and its face was bestial compared to its relatively humanoid body. Large ram horns grew from the back of his head and curved forward like a pair of scorpion’s tails prepared to strike. Tusk like teeth protruded straight from his mouth several inches away from his sneering lips. The most disconcerting thing though was his stare. His eyes had no pupils and resembled solid black entropy and when he called for attention fire leapt from those eyes to form a half halo around his head. This they discovered occurred whenever he spoke.
Truly horrified the companions would surely have run away, if not for the fact that they were gripped with fear and stunned into immobility. Escape of course would have been unlikely so Darkon silently thanked Throngaer, the Demonslayer God of storms and lord over emotion, for the fear that stopped them from fleeing. They therefore only stood and waited for the great creature to speak and condemn them to their fates. As it did so they instinctively flinched expecting explosive anger announcing their immediate deaths. Instead, the frightening, diabolical thing calmly snarled through its mouthful of sharp teeth.
“Greetings, travelers, it appears we have happened upon each other in the dark. I am the general of this mighty force and I must admit that I am surprised to see the likes of you four here in the Abyss.”
Finished speaking he seemed to be awaiting a reply, a reply that was not coming as the four shocked mortals could only stare in awe and fear. The general seemed amused at this and took no offense at all. In fact he was reassured by it. It had been a long time since Dreunivor Tivnilve’ had encountered mortals. Darkon was glad that the thing seemed willing to talk and he was now almost positive this was no demon. Evil incarnate, perhaps, but something other than demon. Yet still the bubbling warmth he felt had not abated.
Finally Darkon found the words he could not find a moment ago, “I am Darkon the Demonslayer and these are my friends, we meant no disrespect or harm to you.”
The general’s eyes widened at this for he had thought he was going to be forced to march his army right over the four befuddled mortals. Then to find one was a Demonslayer! What an eventful day this was turning out to be.
Seeming unsurprised the creature spoke calmly and confidently. “Good then, I chose the correct dialect, let us converse for a moment, Demonslayer.”
Sheathing his great sword the towering general rested on one knee upon the ground while signaling to his lieutenants to tell the troops to rest as well. At once after the order was relayed, the great horde relaxed. The clamor was enormous as hundreds set down weapons and sat down at once. Waiting several minutes before the noise decreased the four companions began to relax as well. After Darkon's reassurances they began to realize that the situation was not nearly as dire as it could have been. If these were demons, they knew they’d be filling bellies right now. Only Galen would not sit and rest, swearing he would not be slain without at least one swing of his magical blade. Dreunivor paid the mortal no mind, understanding the affect his presence must have had on the mentally weak creatures.
“Now, where was I?” The creature began. “Ah, of course! Understand Darkon, the first question I must ask is an obvious one. What are four mortals doing traveling the Abyss so openly?”
By the light brushing he felt in his mind Darkon knew this being was very skilled in the mindflow. Having only just regained his abilities he still had only a limited level of understanding and he did not yet know that he could easily block the general’s mental intrusions. He did suspect that any lies he told would be seen through and he feared those lies may be seen as an affront. So, he did the safest thing he could, he told the absolute truth. Why they were there, where they were headed and who they all were. His friends were gaping by the end of his telling, shocked that he had barely spared an ounce of their time together. The general was satisfied though, for he chuckled through much of it and gave condolences when necessary. Every bit was followed by a swift mind sweep that told the general what Darkon declined to mention, such as their pasts and how they became friends and their dreams and desires. Only the Demonslayer’s mind proved any challenge to the creature’s power even though he could not resist, being inexperienced as he was.
To all their credit they took this treatment quite well and merely looked to the son of the Black Tiger Clan, hoping he chose his next words carefully. Before he could continue the general abruptly stood and stared off into the darkness. Darkon began to ask him what was wrong but something caught his words before they left his throat.
Feeling then the touch of the mindflow he heard the mental voice of the huge warrior say, “Do not speak aloud, I sense an organized party of demons passing by about two miles away. Organized may be a strong word, more like a pack of wild beasts perhaps?”
Darkon returned, “Will you attack them? Is that why you’re here? Exactly what do I call your people anyway?”
He then persisted for he sensed the general was about to leave. Instead of answering in words the great red skinned creature answered all at once with images. Images were a much faster way to exchange knowledge and understanding and indeed in mere moments Darkon learned much more than he initially requested.
First he learned how long, long ago, when Earth was covered in rivers of fire the general’s people were merely one among demon kind and a handful of other diabolical races. Together they had dwelt on Earth serving their masters, the elder gods. The elders each had their own contingent of these creatures and used them to fight their battles for them. When a disagreement occurred between two elders, instead of fighting personally which would have destroyed the still developing planet, they conducted small wars. At first the wars settled everything, until elders like Set and Tiamat began to ignore the rules that had been set down. They had changed their contingents to suit themselves and further augmented their own ability to win the wars. Soon every elder god followed suit and thus the differences between the denizens of all the dark planes were pronounced. Demons were one of these products and the general’s people, the devils, were another. The enmity between them stemmed from the two elders who created them so long ago, thus they were bred for the purpose of killing each other. Both masters were now long gone from these realms but the creatures could not deviate from their very natures. They were programmed genetically to battle until the final day.
All of this Darkon soaked in and more, he also sensed the respect the devils had for his own kind, the Demonslayers, and the surprise the devil master had felt upon meeting him. The devil apparently was under the impression that the Demonslayers had been destroyed.
At that final thought the creature signaled to his lieutenants and began the preparations to leave. As the friends looked on an opening was made directly through the rigid lines of the devil army leaving room for the four adventurers. As Darkon and his friends walked slowly and carefully between the lines of soldiers, many of the devils seemed to contemplate ripping the throats from the presumptuous mortals. Still none followed through for they all feared the general and his cruel whip.
Sensing the building tension among the devil ranks Darkon did what a priest once told him never to do, he removed his headband. He then pledged to himself that never again would he conceal his proud mark while away from the lands of men. The devils that saw his mark broke into whispers and soon the entire army knew a Demonslayer still lived. No more thoughts of killing occurred now, only respect and what was most incredulous coming from devils, sympathy.
As the ten minutes needed to pass through the ranks went by and they left the army some steps behind, one and all let out a breath of relief.
Galen more than any it seemed realized how close they had come to a horrible end, yet it was he who relaxed enough to place an arm around Darkon's shoulder and say, “ I told Graton you were useful for something! I just didn’t know what.”
Everyone laughed at that, relaxing more as the sound of marching devils drifted to silence. They also found comfort in that the army had come from the direction they were heading in and surely any demons they had come across had been slain. Now, only the true destination lay ahead.


CHAPTER 10
TOO MANY EVILS


The demon lord chuckled ironically this time, for if he had not been following this mortal party’s movements he may never have discovered the devilish army that was marauding through his domain. Yes, he thought it good fortune and now he had even more reason to allow them to survive. Except that now he knew the identities of these youthful warriors and due to the fact there was a Demonslayer among them he could never allow them to live. In fact, they were much worse off than before and he would be forced to torture them all. He must scour their minds and discover if there were any other surviving Demonslayers. Dardiax would take the one called Darkon and put him on display for his subjects to view. They would see that though the combined forces of chaos could not finish the foul slayers their lord and master could.
Dardiax heard them tell the devil general that they sought the Scepter of Fire and although this was not the first time someone sought to rob him he found this even more insulting than usual. These four were not nearly skilled enough to make it through his countless defenses let alone defeat him here in his own realm. Knowing they were hired by some unknown mage Dardiax did sense there was more to this party than he had yet perceived. He was determined now to find out what that secret was. So determined in fact that he prepared a magic that would bring them into his very home.
His home was a massive walled palace that took two days Earth time to walk from one end to the other. Built from the black stone that was so prevalent in the Abyss the walls were ten feet thick and fifty feet high. The palace had a sleek, alien design with rounded corners and striking lines that gave it a haunting beauty. Above the spearing towers winged demons patrolled the skies. Their wings being like those of a dragonfly the constant sound of humming filled the air. All of this Dardiax pledged these foolish adventurers would never see.
Sending a portal directly to the four unwary travelers, he gave them access to the deepest levels of his home. There they would be tested both mentally and physically and after they were tormented sufficiently Dardiax would find the answers to his questions. Torturing them would force their minds to open to him. Though the demonic mindflow was not as strong as the devils he would succeed once the mortals were weakened. As he watched his scrying pool the four did as any foolhardy adventurers would, they entered the portal.
Dardiax the Darkbringer then did something he had not done in decades, he set down his mighty Scepter of Fire and enclosed it within a large iron chest. The chest would not open unless the proper command word was spoken. For a split second he toyed with the notion that he might be being watched but that was foolish. Here his power was the only law and none would dare spy on the Darkbringer! Closing the chest he turned to the pool and watched as the fools adjusted to their new predicament. Easily battling past the several minor demons that dwelled in the chambers they moved on to a large hallway and quietly crept onward through the dark tunnels. Dardiax smiled wryly then and thought how amusing this was going to be.

^ ^ ^

As the demon lord disappeared with a puff of acrid smoke a certain wizard took his turn to smile. Merleptus’ plans were working well so far and though he truly had not intended for Dardiax to discover his hirelings' identities and purpose, he could not help them now. His only task now was to take the Scepter and return to his hidden lair. Knowing the command word for the iron chest it took only the casting of a portal to facilitate his journey to and from the demon’s palace in the Abyss. This he did quickly and perfectly for he had been preparing for this since he first discovered how to scry into other dimensions.
When he arrived in the central caverns where the demon lord resided he cast a spell of warding that would prevent Dardiax from sensing his presence there. Moving to the man sized seamless chest he muttered the word he had paid a considerable price for. “Dau’istae Mor.”
Slowly the chest responded to the command and opened but as it did so Merleptus heard a most strange sound behind him. It was reminiscent of a sound made by a heavy door with rusty hinges. It rang out in the dripping chamber, “Gneeeaagh!”
Spinning about, a spell on his tongue, Merleptus was more surprised by what had created the distraction. It was an imp not two feet high with purplish skin and a pointed tail that snaked behind him. Looking like a miniature devil with an enormous bulbous nose swollen, pocked and sprouting warts at its tip, the creature peered at the mage from eye level, held aloft by two leathery wings. He knew the creature was no challenge to him so he turned back to the source of his attentions. Reaching into the chest he grasped the Scepter and brought it back around to bear on the insignificant Imp.
He knew he had to slay the pest so it would not report his actions to its master yet as the wizard was about to attack the imp it spoke, “Hey you, I’d put that down if I were you! The master isn’t gonna like it.”
And before Merleptus could respond it again wiped its nose, “Gneeeaaagh!”
Merleptus finally responded by swinging the Scepter at it but the imp flew up out of harms way. Then, looking to the waiting portal the mage turned and headed toward it.
“Gneeeeagh!” The imp flew down for the mage’s back as Merleptus had known it would and as it nearly struck with its pointed tail the crafty mage bent forward causing it to miss. The imp, unprepared for the move, lunged past the wizard and now its own rear was exposed.
Merleptus took the opportunity and swung hard at the drippy nosed pest. This time though the imp flew forward, just being struck enough to push him even faster away from the mage, and on an uncontrollable flight toward the conjured portal. The impish wings were meant for hovering more than true flying and even though this particular imp was a more skilled flyer than most he could not stop from hurtling forward. Always looking on the bright side the imp thought to itself how lucky it was the human did not know how to use the Scepter’s powers or he might be a pile of ash right now.
Merleptus recovered from his swing slowly, finding the relic hard to wield as a weapon. He did not feel any magic in it and knew there would have to be rituals that would allow him to wield it properly. The relic had enough power to destroy a whole countryside or incinerate the smallest of creatures but it also had other properties. The relic permeated pure evil and when someone wielded it for long enough they would be turned toward its own way of thinking. Dardiax was lucky in the fact that he naturally agreed with the item’s opinion. Merleptus was different.
The manipulative master of the arcane arts had committed some harsh crimes against many adventurers, such as sending them on suicide missions while he secretly stole what he required. Even going so far as to later recover the magic the poor fools bore with them on their journeys in his name.
Still, even he could not commit the atrocities demons found commonplace. Merleptus did not truly want to harm anyone and he genuinely wished success for those who worked for him. Was it not true that he went through great trouble to get the adventurers the Elder Scrolls so they might have an even better chance at success on the quests? It was not his fault so many of those beings were so greedy they would ask for an item that would only benefit themselves rather than the entire party. Through his pondering he thought of the group Dardiax was probably descending upon right now. They had been different from most of the others. Their apparent leader immediately requested a healing salve. The others, except for the Griffon lord, chose items that would eventually benefit them all. The elf was obsessed with the finding of the Bailick so the often obsessed mage could not blame him, though Graton’s friends may have been upset by his seeming lack of foresight or consideration. Yes, the elf did indeed have some promise.
As the mage followed the annoying imp through the portal he sent a simple spell of message sending to Sevele the beauteous. It would swirl quickly through the ebb of magic that permeated that corner of the Abyss and reach the recipient in the form of a whisper for their ears alone.
The message reflected the more considerate side of the mage and would say, “Remember the ring, this is not worth your lives!”

^ ^ ^

Not so far away the friends were quietly moving from dark hall to torch lit chamber. Sevele was vehemently chastising all three men for she did not agree with walking into a portal that suddenly appeared, that is of course if someone could effectively chastise someone while whispering, let alone seeming vehement at the same time. They as yet had found no evidence that they were in the palace where the Scepter was supposed to be. They didn't even know where they were. The Abyss maybe, perhaps somewhere far from there but they had no way of knowing for sure.
Sevele recalled now why she traveled alone for all those years in Ara’moor. A man was prone to rush into things blindly, not considering the outcome and these three she had become so attached to were not any different. Darkon had been especially drawn to the portal saying he had a feeling. Though she had accepted his power of the mind she had not yet learned to trust its many quirks, or for that matter his ability to control it. Several times he had barged into her mind without notice claiming merely a desire to communicate in private. After she slapped him a heavy, stinging blow across his face he did learn better. Now he would whistle in a low tone to ask her permission and with a nod she would accept or deny his thoughts.
Now no exchanges of thoughts were made as they used the light of Graton’s spear to move from unmarked hall to empty chamber. After the initial encounter with a pack of weaker demons no contact had been made between them and any of this place’s inhabitants. Occasionally they could hear echoes of guttural voices or doors closing but nothing crossed their paths. The group was almost becoming comfortable with their surroundings when the inevitable occurred.
A sudden puff of black smoke that reeked of death erupted in front of them as they entered a wide chamber. Within the billowing smoke a large form manifested itself. Nearly as tall as the twelve foot ceiling its ashen skin left an eerie backdrop for its sickeningly glowing eyes. Clearly a demon, its serpentine lower-half glimmered in the light of Graton's spear. Its human face leered down at them as it bobbed like a serpentine monstrosity. Much like when they met the devil general they were struck with a horror that shocked them into numbness. Though that was just the initial reaction this time. At once three of the four began to retch uncontrollably and fell to the stone floor no longer able to command their muscles to hold them up. Too stricken to scream or move they could only stare, as Darkon stood unaffected between them and the horror.
Darkon focused his thoughts and formed his arm into the steel sword he had become so accustomed to. Unlike his friends he was not afraid, no, instead he was invigorated. This he knew must be a demon lord. His people were created to destroy its kind and ruin their plots, so they were therefore immune to the fear that so easily defeated inexperienced mortals. They were instead empowered by it. The sword arm swelled with adrenaline sped blood and grew to nearly twice its length and was still easy to wield. As he tested its weight the demon lord looked on and smiled.
“You surely do not believe you could challenge me, foolish Demonslayer. Do you?” Dardiax gratingly asked.
Darkon took heart with the growing energy within him and said, “I will sacrifice myself to save my friends if I must, beast!”
A malicious gleam in its eyes, the demon lord coiled its serpent tail beneath it as if readying to strike, yet this was quick in passing and it relaxed on the coils and folded its gangly arms.
“Tell me now, before I slay you, how it is you survived the purging?” It demanded in a harsh growl.
Then he felt the hot knife of the demon lord’s attempts to break through his mental barriers but Dardiax was not skilled enough now that Darkon was made stronger in mind and body. In one swift push he swept the demon’s intrusions away, a move that had seemed impossible when the devil general used the same method.
Dardiax the Darkbringer became enraged. Darkon wielded the mindflow with great force, especially in the presence of a demon.. Though he exhuded confidence and intelligence, the demon lord knew he had his weaknesses. Obvious ones that even now were sprawled in shock on the chamber floor. Dardiax knew what he must do to contain this dangerous mortal and with a gesture made to appear a dark denizen of grotesque appearance.
It had legs like a vulture’s, torso like that of an obese human male and arms that ended in bony hooks. Its face bore a hairy muzzle full of razor keen teeth and its skin was hard like a beetle’s carapace. It bowed to its master and quickly received mentally transferred commands.
Darkon raised his bladed forearm and said, “Demon, summon no more minions, for the time to do battle is here!”
Knowing the demon lord could summon more minions with a mere gesture Darkon knew he must occupy it before it could do so. He first lunged toward the summoned creature but it leapt over his head with incredible strength and raked its hooks across his sword arm as it passed. He accepted the blow and bone chips flew, he then continued his forward motion to attack the massive demon lord. Fully expecting the attack Dardiax tried to move out of reach as the Demonslayer’s sword came down in a mighty swing but the hulking demon lord underestimated the speed of the young warrior.
Strengthened beyond any steel crafted by mortal man Darkon’s sword cut the demon lord from mid-torso down to where its snake half met the floor. Immediately thick gore spilled from its body and Dardiax knew pain like never before. He screamed in agony and rage for no mortal should ever have been able to harm his great person without a great weapon of magic. This was not turning out the way he’d envisioned. The Demonslayer should have been hung before his followers as an example but now Dardiax was about to embarrass himself by allowing the slayer to defeat him, almost.
Holding a hand out before Darkon, Dardiax bellowed, “Stop your attack or the woman dies, Demonslayer!”
Looking to Sevele, Darkon saw that the servant demon indeed had its hooks poised over her prone form. Having little choice he stepped out of reach of the demon lord and halted his attack.
Holding his remaining innards inside his body while he slowly regenerated, Dardiax chuckled through the pain and said, “Now, Demonslayer, sacrifice yourself for your friends and kneel before me.”
Darkon looked from Sevele to the Darkbringer, unsure of what to do.
“Relinquish and I will spare your friends.” Dardiax hollowly promised.
Darkon knew it lied of course for its nature was to do so. He then recalled the short time he and Sevele had shared and tears began to fill his eyes. He had loved her since the first time he saw her, Sevele was so caring, so beautiful. He understood though that he had no way of saving her other than slaying their attackers. Knowing he could never reach the freakish demon in time he then decided he might reach the foul demon lord. In a rush Darkon ran forth toward Dardiax but its mind was of a higher perception than that of any mortal and it immediately detected the impending attack. With the unequaled swiftness of thought the demon lord commanded his servant to slay the woman.
Screaming his hatred and denial Darkon swung his elongated blade vertically, attempting to cleave the cursed demon lord in two. Sevele screamed a final call for her heart of hearts but was cut off by the weapon that tore out her throat.
Dardiax should have known the Demonslayer could see through his lies. He should have known he would be viciously attacked. Now, as he lay in a pool of his own gore cleft in twain by the angered Demonslayer, he realized he’d sorely underestimated his foe. Then, using his last vestige of power he promptly disappeared from the chamber, leaving his lower half behind, tail still thrashing.
About to further mutilate the demon’s remains Darkon was even more enraged as it disappeared. He then turned, expecting an attack from the lesser demon who had slain his love but found instead that it had already been killed. Galen stood poised to strike again having just cut the head from its shoulders and Graton held the shaft of his spear still impaled in the thing’s chest. Neither man showed any expression or even looked Darkon directly in the eyes for they felt ashamed for their inaction. Also, having watched helplessly as Sevele was slain they felt an intense guilt. They were not fully aware of Darkon's immunities when it came to demons so felt as if the blame was theirs alone. They had been frozen in fear and thus were forced to watch as the drama unfolded before their eyes.
Now, Sevele’s nearly decapitated body lay prone, eyes still staring as if pleading. The next sound the two grief stricken men heard would be the most painful and heart wrenching of their entire lives. The two warriors wept openly then at the sound of Darkon's screams.


CHAPTER 11
PATHS THAT CROSS


The two brothers of Rena, Pillo and Darn, had been sent by their concerned parents to find her. The girl had not been back since just after dawn and her chores were eventually going to be handed down to someone else, namely her brothers. Neither Che’burr wanted that. Using their considerable tracking skills it wasn’t long before they found her location within the recently built human sized home just outside of town. They knew she was inside but no matter how they called to her she would not reply.
At first it seemed no large matter since it had ever been a favorite game between the siblings to play hide and seek. Yet as the elder brother, Pillo discovered there was no way for he or his smaller brother to sneak into the building they became more concerned. What if Rena was hurt? What if she was not inside but had been taken away by foul humans? These thoughts and worse coursed through their crafty minds and when the sound of a horse approached they became almost desperate. As the black and white speckled steed rode up to the house they did their best to appear nonchalant, as if they belonged at the obviously human built structure. A large warrior, fully armored and wearing a helm that covered his entire face dismounted and approached the diminutive pair.
“Whose dwelling is this, small ones?” The Che’burr exchanged nervous glances as they each gulped in fear. The only name they were aware of was due to their sister’s relationship with the human and it was Galen’s. The two would never speak the enchanting Sevele’s name because of the fearie pact that disallowed the fearie to give information on others of their kind.
“Speak, before I cut out your cursed tongues!” The warrior was an imposing figure, especially to the small folk.
Thinking it would do no harm and that it might save they’re necks the easily intimidated youngest brother answered honestly.
“This is Galen’s home, and that of his friends.”
The man’s face was hidden to them but they keenly sensed he was smiling under that helm. Pillo looked at Darn and the tiny boy shrugged innocently. Pillo, hoping to restore some of his pride puffed out his chest and asked. “Uhm…and who are you to ask us this?”
This brought a mocking laughter that echoed from within the encompassing helm, one that sent chills down the Che’burr backs.
“Very well, I shall tell you this. I am just a soldier in the service of a great king. One who seeks this Galen you speak of. As a kindness to you, since during my childhood one of your folk helped my poor family in a time of need, I will give to you the knowledge that if you don’t get gone from this place before I and my king return this day, you will be slain.” Allowing his gaze to linger for but a moment the warrior then turned and mounted his steed. With a solid kick to the horse’s flank the man was gone from sight as he galloped over and down the rolling fields that surrounded the home.
Again but with frantic purpose the two Che’burr banged relentlessly on the doors and walls of the building. Sadly, there was still no reply.

^ ^ ^

Rena had been contending daily with arguments from her two brothers. Even though she was of half blood they still demanded she not involve herself with human men. It was far too late, for she had fallen for the prince the moment he kissed her delicate hand. Since her prince Galen had left several days ago she had kept the adventurers’ home in order and took the time to add her loving touches to the prince’s bedchamber. Though her brothers promised her the human would never return she would not listen. She had already planned to say yes when he asked for her hand in marriage, which she was sure he would do. Sevele would be so proud of her and Rena already decided to make the half elf her lady of witness when the day came.
Rena sat daydreaming in Galen’s chamber wondering what it would be like to share a bed with a man so glorious. She had not yet shared a bed with any man and her excitement at finding herself so close to the prospect was near overwhelming. She had come here to hide both from her constantly poking brothers and from the chores she knew her mother had for her to complete. She couldn’t concentrate on her duties much anyway so she decided she was well past the age when she could decline her mother’s requests.
Even now, outside the house she heard someone talking. It was her pesky brothers nosing around looking for her! The Che’burr were nimble folk, and that allowed them to sneak about unnoticed as long as they wished. Yet one knew their tricks if one were half Che'burr themselves. Rena had therefore days ago made the home effectively sneak proof. The shutters had been nailed shut and the doors kept locked from within. Her brothers were unable to find a place to creep in so they resorted to calling her name in loud voices. They sounded as if some true purpose brought them here but she would not budge. She knew how tricky those two wee brothers of hers could be and was surprised when they apparently gave up. The small ones were known for their persistence and they almost always continued looking for her regardless of their lack of success. Suspecting a trick of some sort she stayed in Galen’s goose feather bed breathing deep the scent of the rugged prince of her dreams.
She lay for a short while before nearly falling asleep. Before long her reverie was broken by the sound of the main door’s lock being broken. Then the heavy iron door handle to Galen’s bedchamber moved and the door swung open. She had prayed it was Galen and thought it was, because of the unmistakably human tread. She was wrong.
Instead she was witness to pure terror and her mind was stricken dumb by the horror of the thing that stood before her. The innocent Che’burr had no knowledge of the wrong that befell her in the bed she had hoped to share one day with her love. She was not aware of any pain as her physical shell was ravaged and violated, she only knew serenity, in a place far from Earth, far from her prince. Then as the foul horror finished its despicable act, her life was ended upon the realm of mortals.

^ ^ ^

It took some time for Slaytor and Cann-Dar to finally find Krosten's party. They had to retrace the path they remembered he’d taken those years ago when they had been scattering the Demonslayer children. They found him in the lands north of Gaul heading south. Krosten instantly recognized them, for years did little to change elven or dwarven faces. Surprisingly to them he had changed little himself and this they knew was clear evidence that his gods favored him too much to allow old age to be the death of him.
With a little cajoling the young men and women Krosten had gathered remembered the two as well. Though as they recalled them through children’s eyes they were larger than life figures they’d dismissed as whimsical fantasy. Now the memories poured in and they recalled how the two beloved “Uncles” were the only force that stood between them and the endless stream of foes. Foes that had sought the children’s lives.
That night a celebration ensued and Krosten's charges hunted down game and Slaytor provided the spirits, of which he had plenty to go around. Cann-Dar took the time to find out which children had been recovered and which had not. Sadly he noted the son of the Black Tiger Clan was missing. Krosten told him that when he reached the Pictish highlands Darkon had already left the place. The natives there had told him of a small force that came from the sea and attacked for no known reason. Darkon's foster parents were both slain and the boy had become something of a legend. The men who defended their homes bore witness as Darkon had been swept up in a great fury and plunged savagely into the enemy line. It was said the boy was horrible to look at for his grief made him into something other than human. The enemy perceived this as well for they were soon turned back after that. They ran screaming to their boats and never returned but sadly, neither had Darkon.
Cann-Dar smiled at the tale saying, “The boy sounds much like his fathers before him. We must find him, he will be a force to be reckoned with.”
Krosten nodded in agreement. “Indeed, but I am concerned over his well being. We must be prepared for anything, for this young warrior has already been through too much.”
Cann-Dar understood that for not only had the young man already lost his entire family and any home he may have had, he then lost his foster parents. Worse, he was there to witness their deaths. Much more of this and he could become one of the lost ones.
Lost ones were Demonslayers driven mad by any number of things. They wandered the lands and beyond and almost always found some way to enter the Abyss. Rumors and stories said they gave themselves completely to the destruction of demons and their followers, going in and out of sanity. A legend was told at elven campfires, whose memories were the longest, of a renegade Demonslayer who once he’d slain a particular demon lord had then stolen that lord’s power. Legend said that even now he ruled some kingdom in the Abyss and spent his time rescuing wayward adventurers and furthering Demonslayer causes. Of course, these were merely legends.
The key would be to give Darkon some hope and show him he was not alone. Krosten noted that Darkon most likely possessed the mindflow, as did his father before him. It was probable that by now the resourceful young warrior had already made his way past the false memories placed in all the children’s minds. The old priest’s fear was that if Darkon thought he was the last of his kind he might become reckless.
Krosten had long been praying to Astnalia’s children to help him find the wayward slayer. It had, until a few days ago, been working and that was why he was heading south rather than west where two more children had been left in hiding. Recently it had stopped working and the high priest was unsure whether Darkon had perished, disappeared or if he had simply lost the favor of the gods. Nevertheless he’d continued south for he also sought the relic Cann-Dar and Slaytor had recovered.
Now he had the relic but still thought of moving southward for Cann-Dar was correct. The youth would serve well and make a great leader, as was his birthright. Krosten felt that to show respect to the Black Tiger clan he should at least find out what had happened to Darkon. For now though they celebrated this reunion and both Slaytor and Cann-Dar pledged to aid Krosten and his charges once again. Even now Slaytor was giving axe throwing lessons to the young slayers while the priest prepared himself for meditation over the relic. He possessed a limited form of the mindflow that allowed him to attune himself with his surroundings and after some meditation release his spirit from his physical shell and drift about the land unseen. With the additional edge earned from long years of experience he had become a master of his particular mindflow.
Cann-Dar merely watched all this, stoically observing the happy young men and women. He knew this was but a fleeting moment and the times ahead would be difficult, for an entire race could not be restored to greatness overnight. No, this was going to take great effort from all concerned. One good thing was the recovery of the relic. Not only did it mean safety for the Demonslayers once they were inside their city but it also meant that the evil beings that so hated them could not destroy their holy artifacts no matter the power they held. Instead they had hidden them in near inaccessible places hoping none lived to find them. The relics were the backbone of the Slayarian civilization and without them they were exposed and without resources.
Cann-Dar thought specifically of the Flask of Kings, said to hold a drop of blood from every Demonslayer king it was the necessary tool for revitalizing their race. To the chagrin of their many foes they could strengthen their numbers by initiating a non-slayer into the fold. Any race or creed could become a Demonslayer and their children after them would be born with the full characteristics of a born Slayarian. Legendary among the elves of Europa was the scarlet wren clan, which consisted of mostly elven Demonslayers. Dwarves had a presence as well and were called the golden badger clan, though their numbers were never too large. By drinking from the Flask of Kings one opened themselves to the judgment of Astnalia’s brood. If they were found worthy they would become a Demonslayer and the gods would leave with them an image of the clan animal they would become one with. Fail the test and the result would be death. In this way the gods ensured no traitors would walk among them and it had indeed proven successful up until twelve years ago.
Someone who was of the blood had forsaken their own people by taking the relic he and Slaytor had found. Only one of the true bloods could have removed the relic from its resting place. Indeed it might have been that same traitor who scattered the other relics to the four winds and beyond.
Cann-Dar looked to Slaytor then and agreed with his initiative. He would also help train these young people for though they were each well versed in their chosen fields they still had much to learn. One of the most important things they would learn would be the fact that they were an entirely separate race from the normal human. Each had been raised to battle the supernatural and demonic until they had been sent away by their parents. Most humans would cower helplessly at the presence of a demon or anything they could not explain.
Not so, the Slayarians. They relished the encounters that they were bred for and reacted with courage and wisdom upon meeting any foe. Creatures that had once roamed the land in great numbers such as goblins, ogres and even the occasional bealrotti were as nothing to the Demonslayer people. In fact, while an average human mother told tales to her children about the terrible goblins and the monstrous ogres, a goblin mother was frightening her brood with stories of the dreaded Demonslayers. Cann-Dar hoped that he could erase the fears and misconceptions these young folk had undoubtedly inherited from their well meaning foster parents and replace them with the confidence and pride of Slayaria’s children. Of course he knew that he could not likely fail since they were each and every one true bloods.
Still the elf was saddened that only eight children had as yet been recovered. From what Krosten had told him he presumed no more would be directly recovered. It was the high priest’s hope that once these few Demonslayers established a safe home then he could turn his attention to recovering the rest. It was understandable since the main concern was to keep the ones he had already found safe and if they continued to journey conspicuously across the land someone was bound to notice.
Many of the ancient foes of Slayaria may indeed have forgotten them but surely there were those who would never forget and keep vigil in case the dread Demonslayers did return. Inwardly Cann-Dar pledged to Ariel, the goddess of magic loving elves and all of the various fearie folk, to aid the children in restoring their people to past greatness as best he was able. Looking to his dwarven comrade he knew Slaytor would do the same. Above anything, even his own people, that dwarf loved these children. The elf knew that pledge could be the death of him but it mattered little. He could accept death. It was failure that frightened him the most.

^ ^ ^

Merleptus had not yet turned the Scepter of Fire to his control so it sat dormant upon a nearby table. His home was a sunken tower that rested in the bogs of Gaul. Though only the three topmost levels of it were above ground it was still an impressive structure. Solid stone, mined from the not so far away mountains, it was no wonder it sunk several more inches every year. Yet even though one would think the original builders must have been either dumb or blind the truth was its placement in the swamp was intentional.
Merleptus’ own teacher had planned it so that eventually it would be undetectable from above the ground. The old master had cast mighty spells that kept the inside of the tower whole and dry, untouched by the invasive bog. After being killed by his prize student, Merleptus, the tower retained its magic and would last presumably throughout time.
At the bottommost level of the tower, Merleptus’ gaze was transfixed to the scrying pool he spent so much time over. He had tried to send a warning message to Sevele to remind her of the ring’s ability to take her and her friends out of the Abyss. Now he understood that she was frozen in terror and couldn’t break the spell to activate the ring. Whether she understood his message or not, he could not know.
Merleptus had seen many horrible things in his three centuries of life and was mostly numb to grief and despair. Today though, for some reason he did not wholly understand, he was truly aghast at what had occurred. A wave of tears struck him as he witnessed Darkon's primal mourning and the effects it had on his two remaining comrades. If anyone was responsible the mage knew it was himself, yet he could tell that the three friends were bearing the brunt of the guilt. For some reason he could not turn away from the pool as he had done so many times before. He’d known that this group had much promise and were destined for great accomplishments. He’d also known that they were young and mostly inexperienced. Especially when dealing with demon kind and the Abyss. The mage had sent Sevele to her doom as he had many others but this time the regret was catching up with him. But what was he to do?
Surely he could not approach the three warriors now for they might attack him at first sight. Maybe, he thought, if he were to help bring relief and some form of comfort to them they would take their loss easier than they were. Looking at the powerful scepter he had just acquired, conflicting emotions battled for control within his chest. Why should he care? Why should he help them now after he had already completed the task? Did they not have the ring, which would take them home? He did realize that the men were so grief stricken they had probably forgotten the ring. Then, breaking the his reverie, a most disconcerting sound attracted his angry attention.
“Gnneeeaaghh!” The Imp had finally shown itself.
“How touching,” It squeaked, “Youse woulda thought a mighty wizard likes yerself would ave better tings ta do dan moon over some puny peoples.”
The creature hovered over the table where sat the scepter and wiped its dripping, grapefruit sized nose. How the creature could fly with such an imbalance on one end was beyond even Merleptus’ understanding.
Yet his only concern was how to capture the vile creature and either put it to good use or dispose of it. Merleptus reached into a small pouch at his belt and felt for the turquoise crystal stone he used to protect himself from poison. He was able to pinpoint it by touch alone for each stone was scored deeply with a mystic symbol.
Once found he palmed it he spoke threateningly to the annoying creature. “I will give you a choice, pest. You will either serve me unquestioningly or you will perish, slowly.”
The imp called Sniffaro cocked its head sideways and considered the offer.
Shrugging its tiny shoulders it said, “As if I have any choice in da matta.”
Slowly it moved through the damp air of the scrying chamber and carefully perched atop the mage’s outstretched arm. Then just as the mage seemed to relax, the imp took its chance and impaled its venomous tail into the back of his neck. Merleptus could not help but yell out in pain for though the creature’s poison was ineffective its tiny barb had penetrated deep through his flesh. The mage grabbed the imp then and threw it upon the stone floor. The creature was expecting such a move and barely hit the ground as it rose in flight. Yet it had not expected the wizard’s immunity to poison so was not ready when it was grabbed a second time.
Now Merleptus barely controlled his rage and very nearly slew the creature. Again his logical mind demanded the creature could be useful so he allowed it to live.
“Now, pest, you understand your tricks are useless against me. No poison may harm my person nor can anything else for that matter. I am deserving of your servitude and I will allow you another chance. Now I have a very important mission for you to complete.”
He then explained his wishes to Sniffaro and the imp no longer had any thoughts of treason or deception. This master was like any he had known in the Abyss, unstoppable and unbending. The imp decided then that he would serve this mage as best he could, for away from the Abyss his fate was no longer certain. If he was slain away from his home he would be condemned to a century of imprisonment in the dreaded void. Worse he would be taken out of the evolving spiral that would eventually make a full demon out of him and he was so near the ascension now that he would do anything to stay alive.
Indeed the Imp would serve Merleptus well, at least until a stronger master demanded his service, “Gneeeeeaghck!”


CHAPTER 12
HOMECOMING


Galen didn’t know how long they stood mourning the loss of the most lovely and bravest woman there must have ever been. Galen knew that if Darkon hadn't caught her eye first he would have been obsessed with gaining her favor himself. She had been a great friend to all of them and had proven herself the most resourceful among their party. He knew as well that he could never repay her for arranging the meeting between him and Rena. Somehow Sevele knew who would be perfect for him and Rena indeed was what he had needed. He thought of how he would feel if anything ever happened to her and sympathized with Darkon even more. Sevele was, by her choice an adventurer so had been treated as an equal among them. Her death had been unavoidable.
Though Galen was greatly ashamed by the reaction he exhibited when the demon lord appeared he now knew that Darkon was unaffected only because he was a Demonslayer. Regardless of blame Sevele was gone now and none of them knew of any magic that could bring back the dead. Still Darkon demanded they take her remains back to the woods of Ara’moor, provided they could get home themselves.
They left the spot where the battle occurred and retraced their steps hoping the portal that brought them there was still standing. When they arrived back at the location the portal was gone. They rested for a short time upon the cold and unforgiving stone floor, each man leaving the other alone with their thoughts.
Gazing upward and leaping to his feet Graton suddenly exclaimed, “Look at the ceiling, something is coming down!”
The men stood and watched in awe as a radiant light appeared from above. Following its glowing nimbus was a magnificent godly being. Its presence was accentuated by what sounded like a hundred swarms of bees playing a joyous melody. Standing nearly seven feet tall was a womanly spirit aglow with such beauty it was almost unbearable for the three men to gaze upon her. Not only did the figure radiate joy and energy, she also emanated godly power.
When she spoke it was as if all the elegant and loving creatures in the world were her voice, “Silvanus enquesta consolian mortalis.”
All three men, who only hours ago were battling demons, dropped flat on their backs, in this way they knew they showed their willingness to die by her hand. With their backs arced and their bellies exposed they even invited the sweet bliss the figure’s gaze seemed to promise. Instead she ignored the three prostrate men and looked to the dead body that lay before them. She knelt by Sevele’s form, still so lovely in death, and brushed the hair from her near perfect face. She whispered softly to Sevele and held a hand above her still heart. Quietly at first the messenger of the gods began to sing a tune. Soft and melodic yet sad and haunting the three warriors were themselves lulled into a dreamlike state. Then slowly an intangible spirit arose from the torn body and Sevele’s soul stood before them all. Even through the bliss Darkon wept for his loss.
Within his mind and through his mindflow he begged her not to leave him but was careful not to speak out loud for fear of offending the god’s messenger. The speaker for Silvanus had come to take Sevele’s spirit home where the nature god bathed his followers in paradise. Still Darkon wept.
Then Sevele smiled down at him as she slowly lifted toward the ceiling and said, “Darkon, dear heart, I love you so. I will await your arrival at the edge of the next plane and I will accompany you’re speaker when she comes to take you home.”
At that she and her heavenly speaker rose through the ceiling and disappeared from sight.
All three men were too stricken with awe to speak and could only rise to their knees. When they stood, all were again in tears, not for their loss but this time for the remorse they felt because they weren’t joining the speaker themselves. How they yearned to be with their gods in paradise and they thought of how easy it would be to allow oneself to be careless and perish so the journey would be possible. Yet only several seconds later they realized what they were thinking and returned fully back to the mind set that defined a mortal. Each man turned from the spot with a smile upon his face.
They had been witnesses to the final answer to everyone’s questions. There was a better place for the faithful. Sevele was merely the first of them to go there and they realized how wonderful that was for her. Looking down to her body they knew now that it was but an empty shell that still must be protected from any demonic tampering. Darkon no longer used such delicate care with her remains for he knew Sevele was truly gone. He threw the husk over his shoulder in preparation to journey onward and that was when a most peculiar sound drew their attention.
“Gneeeeagh!” A small winged demon stood on the stone floor wiping its nose on its arm. In one of its diminutive hands it held and displayed a ring. “Hey dere, ahh, was one of yous guys missin’ dis ere ring? Cause’ if not I knows a fence in Tarterus…” It said.
Galen had seen a creature much like this one at the side of his father’s wizard, Par-Than, so he knew it must have some master ordering its actions. Unlike his father Galen never trusted Par-Than, for as a boy he witnessed the mage participate in unscrupulous dealings. He had never seen a goodly wizard accompanied by such a creature even though Par-Than said it was common among his kind. Thus he suspected the true nature of this vile imp was evil incarnate and instinctively drew his blade.
The ring, all recognized, as the one Sevele had called forth from Merleptus’ elder scroll. They had forgotten all about it and what its power was. Strangely they were fortunate this annoying thing came along when it did.
Pointing his sword tip at the small servant demon Galen snarled, “Hand it over imp or feel my blade!”
“Gneeesh! No need ta get all miffed! Here ya go!” Sniffaro tossed the ring casually to the prince who snatched it out of the air with his free hand.
Then the imp continued his rehearsed lines, “No needs ta thank me, my master sent me to remind youse of da rings power, so I did.”
Galen was sure he should just slay the pest, its whining manner and arrogant tone made his skin tremor with irritation. Visibly angry he was sorely challenged to keep his emotions in check to keep from splitting the creature in two. The Imp seemed to see this and wisely hovered away from the swordsman but still he wasn’t going to leave yet. Thanks to Merleptus he had several things yet to accomplish.
After the men affirmed it was indeed the ring Sevele had worn, Darkon placed it on his finger and Galen spat toward the imp.
Speaking the required words, “Take us home.” Darkon evoked the magical portal that would lead back to Havoctown.
One after the other they entered the swirling red portal, first Darkon and finally at the last moment, Sniffaro. The journey was again instantaneous and they found themselves looking at home once again.
All their thoughts of finally returning home left them though as they realized it was their very own recently built house they now witnessed burning to the ground. Standing nearby were several of the small folk Sevele had befriended. All were mournfully crying and chanting as they stared at the flames and Galen’s heart felt suddenly like lead. He remembered he had asked Rena to take care of the house while he was away and these were her people. He went into a full sprint toward the burning house, despair threatening to rip his heart from his chest. The Che’burr saw him coming but did not move, they knew who the killer was and it was not he. They understood that the human male had been introduced to Rena but could not have known of her love for him nor his own enchantment with her. They were then even more touched when this proud and strong warrior broke into tears at their dear Rena’s death.
Galen fell to his knees next to the broken and burned body of his frail and tender love. He thought the well spring of tears had been run dry by the mourning of Sevele but the pain of seeing Rena battered so gave way to a torrent of new tears that fell upon her soot covered face revealing in spots her delicate skin. He thought of the short time he had spent with her and how he would never be able to show her his homeland or share his dreams with her. He wiped the soot from her face, kissed her for the final time and turned away as the tearful Che’burr moved to gather the body.
Graton and Darkon were stunned. Who would have done this? Was it the demon lord Darkon had hacked in two? Surely if the demon wasn’t dead it wasn’t in any shape to retaliate in such a manner and Graton knew from his arcane studies that creatures of the lower planes mostly could not pass into the earthly realm unless summoned by powerful magic. Then who could it have been?
After a short time two of the small ones delicately approached the pair of warriors who bore Sevele’s body. They were male and fair skinned, sandy blond haired and bore short cudgels.
“You there, its all your fault our sister is dead! How dare you stand here as if you knew our Rena!”
Darkon knew their pain well so did not blame them for their anger. “How is it I am to blame small one?” He gently replied.
The greatly upset Che’burr was gesturing strongly with his small but strong hands as he talked. His younger brother beside him was agreeing with his every word with a hearty nod.
“Not just you but all of you who lived there.” He pointed at the burning home, “Rena was lured in by your human tricks and now she is gone!”
The words stung the man and elf evenly for they felt responsible in various ways for this death and the death of Sevele. Silently they pledged someone was going to pay for all of this pain and wrong doing though now they must still find out who was responsible.
Darkon clenched his fist before the distraught brothers and asked, “Who, small one, who did this thing? Tell us so we may bring you their heads!”
At that the two accusers exchanged frightened glances. They had seen who had done it but could not find words to describe the thing that terrified them so.
“We were waiting outside the house for we knew Rena was hiding inside. From the west came a lone armored human. He threatened us and promised to kill us if we did not tell him exactly whom the house belonged to. He rode off saying that if we did not leave we would be killed by his king when they returned.”
The two brothers exchanged fearful looks and the youngest continued.
“Then a large group of riders came from the south and circled the building. It was when their leader dismounted and approached us that we were so stricken with an unreasonable fear that we could not speak or move. He spoke to us, saying we would bear witness to the act that would bring him final victory.” Both small ones shivered at the memory of the cold, cruel voice. “He entered the house and we could only run away when we heard Rena scream. We could not even turn around to aid our poor sister!”
The younger brother’s knees trembled and he said in a wavering voice, “Please do not make us describe this man, for we cannot! We only recall the banner his men did fly.”
Darkon was in deep concentration as the two Che’burr spoke. He brushed the fore thoughts of their minds with his mental touch and coaxed forth the image of the man they spoke of. Thanks to the Che’burr’s frankness and current emotional state it was an easy enough task. The man their thoughts revealed was no one he had ever seen though he acknowledged the man did look formidable. When the smallest brother described the red banner, a black fist clenching a broad sword’s blade, Darkon was just noticing that Galen had moved into hearing distance.
The prince’s fists clenched and he angrily said, “I know that banner, though I never thought I’d be dealing with it in my lifetime. It is the banner of an outlying barony that has opposed the throne of my father’s kingdom for many generations.”
Darkon was very surprised. He had been sure when they first saw the burning house that someone had come for him. Knowing Galen would wish it, he took the image he had taken from the small ones mind and sent it along the path of the mindflow to the princes’ thoughts.
“This is the man who frightened them so?” Galen asked incredulously.
His eyes widened with utter rage and he gripped his sword’s pommel tightly. He knew of this man, he had been present when the man’s father, Satarnafoon, was banished from the earthly realm by the joined power of Genossia’s wizards. His name was Satar and Galen had heard him pledge the destruction of the royal family as he was dragged from the royal courts that fateful day. For a short moment he met his gaze as he was dragged away. He recalled the shiver of fear he felt at that moment and knew now that Satarnafoon had not left his son unprepared. Satarnafoon was reputedly one of the greatest necromancers to have ever lived. Satarnafoon had surely placed enchantment upon enchantment on Satar, ensuring his power to rule if he, the father, failed in his machinations.
Now it seemed Satar was making his move. He had come seeking Galen but instead found the innocent Rena. Satar should have known Galen would have no choice but to hunt him down. Surely he expected that. He had something Satar would not expect though, a Demonslayer and an elf of Ara’moor standing by his side.
“I must hunt this man back to Genossia. He will not go unpunished as long as I breathe. I can only ask that you both would aid me but know that I will bear no resentment if you do not wish to.” Galen said
Darkon and Graton each raised an eyebrow toward Galen and the Griffon lord said, “Nothing could stop me from joining you, Galen, but I also propose that before we leave we attempt to contact Merleptus. For I think the mage has much to answer for.”
Galen agreed, as did Darkon, so after a tense few minutes of voicing their regrets the trio began to walk toward not so distant Ara’moor. There they would lay Sevele to rest and Graton would use his spells to hopefully find Merleptus. Behind them they heard the Che’burr weeping and Rena’s father crying out to Galen.
He said, “You bring back the head of the man who did this and avenge her death, as well as that of the fearie friend you now bear! If you do not there will be nowhere you can hide from the fey folk! So swear the Che’burr!”

^ ^ ^

Merleptus watched all of this from his hidden tower and was intrigued. He paid little attention to the kingdom of Genossia for life there was so orderly and outright boring. There was much reason to his mind that Galen left the place behind to find adventure elsewhere. The mage had his imp servant follow the three men and prepared the creature for what was to come. He knew it would be risky to show himself too closely to the three grieving warriors so the imp would serve as a liaison while the mage gained as much information about Galen’s family and foes as possible. So when the time came to regain their trust he would do so with open assistance.
Indeed all was working well for the mage now. Not only had he gained the scepter but also he would be regaining the swords of a very gifted trio. Maybe, with enough scrying, he could even find his purposes to intertwine with theirs. Surely the land of Genossia held some secret treasure that he could exploit. Yes, such an aged kingdom surely had something to hide. Who better than he to discover what it was? The mage then also decided to give the trio the coins he had promised them. He would call it compensatory fees for a comrade lost along the way.
A subtle gesture and the image changed to that of the skulking Sniffaro who sat perched on a tree limb nearby the mage’s subjects of interest. With a whisper Merleptus instructed the imp and gave it a keyword. Keywords were often given so servants could readily contact their mage masters. The only downfall was that keywords were only functional when a mage was scrying. Of course scrying was one of this mage’s favorite things to do.
The imp confirmed the received information with an annoying, nose wiping whine. A whine that reminded Merleptus why he had sent the creature abroad rather than keeping it within arms reach. Still the thing was proving useful enough for now. Feeling quite satisfied with his machinations, the mage then turned his thoughts away from the earthly plane altogether. Now he looked to the Abyss and searched for what remained of Dardiax the Darkbringer. He knew that the demon could not have been slain so easily and had probably by now recovered from Darkon's attack. Though he was not sure how the demon lord would have regenerated such a large part of itself he was aware that it could live just as well without it. Demons were only part substance and essentially could never truly bleed to death as a mortal could but if it could not recover its bottom half its power was cut in half as well. He only hoped the creature was too occupied recovering and hopefully defending its temporarily lowered status. For, like sharks, once other demon lords learned of Dardiax’s weakened state they would turn on him hoping to climb higher in rank among their kind.
When Merleptus’ seeking magic finally found the demon lord he found it in a black stone constructed, rune covered pit. It was franticly begging for mercy from an unseen aggressor and clearly had only barely recovered from its wounds. Dardiax the Darkbringer was reduced to walking with his arms while his dripping torso thumped along beneath him. This was what Merleptus had hoped for and he relaxed greatly at the sight of a once powerful being reduced to a whimpering wretch.
The mage then decided to find out who or what was toying with Dardiax. It might prove wise to know who would take the Darkbringer's rank, as tenuous as a demon’s rank was. As he concentrated upon seeing what Dardiax was seeing, the mage was gripped by a grim foreboding. He almost stopped his scrying but couldn’t avoid it now that he was caught in the fascination of the dread. Carried onward like a stick in the swift flow of a raging river he used all of his considerable will to focus on the dark image hovering over Dardiax.
It was tall, like a giant, and built like a mighty warrior, muscles bulging beneath a velvety black fur. Smooth human like features were framed by curling yellow horns and his pupiless eyes shone with a silvery radiance. The great demon ran its clawed fingers over a wide bladed sword, creating sparks along its length.
He made no sound other than that with his claws and his piercing gaze made Merleptus feel as if the demon were looking directly at him. Then the demon winked and he knew the truth. The mage had never seen the beast before now and never heard tales of him either. Still he could voice its name, sensing it in the subconscious of his mind. This horror was named, Calic-Matar.


CHAPTER 13
A QUEST FOR REVENGE


It was some time before Darkon settled for a suitable place for Sevele’s burial. They all agreed to bid her farewell in full elven custom. The elves believed that since they were brought forth from the earth in the beginning they must return to the earth in the end. Stripped to bare skin one would decompose very quickly.
After the last bit of dirt covered her Graton sang the elven song of mourning. Galen and Darkon did not understand the words but the beauty of the song was still piercing to their hearts. The entire forest seemed to hush in order to hear his voice.
So absorbed were all three that none noticed the crowd that gathered at the edge of the small clearing they were in. The fearie were good friends of Sevele and all were greatly saddened when she left Ara’moor. Now they mourned her death, all quietly listening to the Griffon lord’s song. Except of course the now invisible imp, Sniffaro. The imp was in fear for its life and well it should be. Fearie would kill any of his kind on sight and then display his remains for their fellows to further abuse.
As Graton’s song ended the numerous fey creatures dispersed, allowing Sniffaro to relax. Soon he knew his time for appearing would arrive. The three companions walked about a mile away to a meadow that surrounded a small pond. Spell book at his side Graton kneeled at the pond’s edge and prepared to begin the castings that would allow him to find Merleptus. The pond was perfect as a temporary scrying device but the elf's casting was interrupted by a most distracting sound.
“Gnneeeeagh!” Sniffaro hovered nearby, announced by his nose once again.
Before anyone could move or react it said, “My master has sent me ta ansa’ anyting youse got ta ask! He sees and hears us just fine.”
Only Darkon knew, through the intuitive nature of the mindflow, whom the pesky imp spoke of. “Why doesn’t Merleptus show himself? Is he so full of guilt he cannot face me?”
“My master says he feels remorse about da girl and wants ta apologize for her dyin’.” The Imp then seemed to hold back a belch.
Its eyes widened and it looked as if it could no longer breathe. With a solid thump that crunched some fallen branches the imp fell to the ground. It belched again and made a show of holding back some unbidden vomit. Then suddenly a gold coin shot from its mouth, and then another. On and on the coins fell and chinked into the growing haphazard pile until three hundred gold coins piled up around the creature. Darkon, Graton and even Galen, who was tempted to kill the creature while it was unable to fly, watched with amazement. They understood that it was being used as a receptacle for Merleptus’ spell but the sight was still unbelievable.
Nearly obscured from sight the men heard it breathe outward in relief and say, “Was dat really necessary?”
It then hovered out of the pile and settled down closer to Darkon. “Dese coins is ta help ya on your journey south. My master knows of Satar and would likes me ta warn youse that the man is completely insane and should be dealt with very carefully. He has taken Galen’s family prisoner and taken da throne! He wants ta execute all’o dem at once so he waits fer Galen ta show up.”
Galen was stricken with this news and said, “Which means I’ll be walking into a trap.”
Graton nodded and Darkon added, “We will be indeed, my friend.”
The imp interrupted then and said, “My master says ta remember da word he will now give ya through me so when youse are in trouble youse can call on him fer help. Da word is,” The illiterate creature pronounced the word slowly and carefully for any mispronunciation would not work as the key word should, “…scintillation.”
“Scintillation.” Graton repeated as the Imp zealously nodded. Only the elf had heard the word before and he found it strange coming from one who would employ such vile creatures as Imps.
Darkon seemed to be on the edge of exploding into a rage as he spoke up, “Tell Merleptus we appreciate his concerns and his help. Yet, he must know that I am aware that he sent us blindly into the Abyss. For that I cannot allow him to be pardoned without punishment.”
He was now sure of what he had said, for why else would the mage send this foul imp in his stead. Surely he must have realized Darkon was not a forgiving kind of person. His blood boiled as he realized the mage must have been watching them while they battled through the Abyss and he must have watched when Sevele had been slain. If the mage had been any kind of friend or ally he would have taken some kind of action.
Galen, who had remained quiet almost the entire time, spat in the leaving imp’s direction.
“Creatures like that are foul and any mage who controls one is foul as well.” He growled.
Darkon met his angry gaze then and considering his words wondered why Merleptus used the imp at all. He felt he would have sensed if the mage was evil and sensed no such thing when they met. Perhaps he simply toyed with the pesky creature. Or perhaps the mage was more skilled at masking himself from the mindflow than he’d realized. Regardless he wanted no more of the mage’s quests or assistance, though he did welcome the gold. He then stepped to the glistening pile and scooped it all into a sack he still had with him from the failed quest in the Abyss. Galen’s supply of gold had run out and if the Imp spoke truly he would not be garnering new funds any time in the near future.
As Darkon stood and tied the sack to his backpack Galen cleared his throat and said, “My friends, we must now plan for our journey. Now that Merleptus has told us of my family’s situation, if indeed what he said is true, I realize I must now make an admission.”
Galen, Prince of Genossia, who gave his prayers and loyalty to the angry war god called Ares, prepared himself to face the most feared foe of men who held positions of power, the truth.
“I have told you of my origin but not of the real reasons I travel so far from my home. The fact is, I deserted my father and the kingdom, knowing all the time that my family’s downfall was inevitable.” The words seemed hard for Galen to say and they struck him like blows when he spoke them. “A prophecy from a priest of a different religion than my own told of the coming attack from the son of Satarnafoon. It said I would be a key to the success of the invasion because of my inexperience in battle. So, I left home at only sixteen winters old and I haven’t returned in nearly four. I should have gone home last winter but I thought I would have more time.” He hung his head low. “I thought I would have had much more time. I did not want to go home and possibly cause the downfall of my father’s kingdom.”
Galen's head lowered in shame, clearly the guilt was overburdening him. His friends were stunned not for the prince’s admittance of what he had done but instead that he admitted to them that he had lied. Neither of them ever pushed Galen in conversation about his princely status and responsibilities. They’d sensed he never wanted to talk about those things. They had sensed what he was so ashamed of for some time but left him to his own affairs.
Galen’s demeanor most of the time was carefree and even reckless. If there were no battles to be fought he would find the most activity nearby and involve himself until either a fight broke out or he made himself a new friend. His current friends numbered three right now and he had been in plenty of fights. Surely, they thought, if Galen needed their aid he would have asked them. It was true the three had been friends for only a short time but battle had a way of bringing people closer together. Also, the death of mutual friends was a source of bonding through loss. These men had seen each other in all conditions and thus knew one another better than many longtime friends.
Darkon raised his left arm and used the mindflow to convince his body that it was a sword.
As it changed Darkon spoke intently to Galen, “Know you that you have my aid no matter the risk and neither of us can blame you for anything you have done. For is it not true that I, everyday, have put off the finding of my people? I mourn every moment because I may be the last of my kind but still I do not wish to begin a quest that might prove me alone.”
Graton nodded and added, “Alas, I too am guilty. As a member of the Griffon lord clan I am responsible for the everyday care and learning that will allow me to become a leader. Though my duties are not as desperate or weighty as either of yours I too neglect my responsibilities. Know you as well that I stay because you both have shown me there is still some good left in humanity. You’ve shown me that maybe my people are wrong in wanting to leave this world.”
Both humans knew the elves had been retreating more and more into they’re most ancient groves and strongholds. Graton had broken an elven pledge that did not allow communication with humans. In the eyes of most elves humans were no longer to be treated as poor cousins were but rather as a plague to be avoided. Darkon and Galen were well aware of this pledge for it was spoken of often in human stories and folk tales. Still there were those among the elven nation who resisted the calling to leave the humans and their world behind.
Galen had a great respect for Graton’s fighting prowess and envied his seeming peace of mind. He realized he’d been wallowing in his own guilt while his friends were in the same position as he.
He grinned widely and loudly said, “Good then, now that we’ve cleared the air lets go buy some horses!”
Darkon grinned as well and raised his bladed arm into the air toward the shining moon and proclaimed the coming downfall of Satar the mad. After that he asked Galen if it was safe to send him alone to purchase horses. Galen had no reply but his cheeks colored so many shades of red he felt he had his answer.

^ ^ ^

Dardiax knew his days, nay his moments, were numbered. He had greatly underestimated the Demonslayer and now his resulting weakness had been taken advantage of. Worse, his tormenter was no mere upstart seeking to further his position among demon kind. Calic-Matar had been imprisoned within the Scepter of Fire centuries past by the relic’s creator. The scepter was now in someone else’s hands, that much was obvious. Clearly a non-demon had taken it, for only a mortal grip would release Calic-Matar from his prison. At this Dardiax smiled, the scepter was now powerless and the thief would be crestfallen and confused.
Long ago the scepter’s creator made the item for the sole purpose of confining Calic-Matar. The creator knew that as long as the relic gave one power they would never free the dangerous demon inside. So it had been for several centuries the relic was stolen by demon after demon and soon none recalled whose essence lie within, none that is except for the Darkbringer. Dardiax knew of Calic well before now for he had been a minor demon at the time Calic was great. He understood why and how Calic had been imprisoned. Calic was a megalomaniac who would settle for nothing less than total domination of the Abyss, of the darker planes, and eventually of Earth itself. Of course all demons and evil beings had dreams of total rule and subjugation but Calic was different. He did not see it as a dream he would one day achieve. Instead he saw it as merely a matter of course for one so powerful and deserving as he. Power was indeed held in great stock by Calic-Matar, power that outreached all but the most powerful of demon lords and other evil entities. Even more terrifying was the ancient artifact Calic was in possession of.
The Soul Vault was a massive construct that was reputed to have been created by the elder gods. It was said that at the whim of the vault’s owner a creature could be changed dramatically, without and within. Those who possessed it often utilized its power to create dark servants and even small armies. Dardiax knew the vaults were real for he found himself cowering at the bottom of them. Looking upward he saw the opening to a tubular fifty foot pit. The walls were entirely covered with glowing glyphs and runes undecipherable even to the highly learned. The floor was littered with the remains of beasts thrown in centuries ago. They were naught but petrified bones twisted in impossible angles. He was unsure whether he was to die or be changed. Either way his existence was doomed, for any vault creation would be under the control of the possessor of the Soul Vaults. Lost in his doom filled thoughts Dardiax was startled when Calic spoke to him.
“Soon, Dardiax, I shall find a suitable creature and you will be whole again. Of course, your followers will not recognize you.” Dardiax could only stare pleadingly to the great Calic-Matar and knew it would be for naught. “I have found the scepter’s bearer at last and though I cannot harm him in any way, the Soul Vaults will be a fitting place for him. Perhaps I shall mix both your essences together. Would you like that? Would you enjoy being merged with a human?”
Chuckling deep at that Calic stepped away from the pit.
Dardiax still heard his voice clearly as he detailed for him his plans for the bearer. “His name is Merleptus and he is a mighty wizard. He has even scryed you while you lay within the vaults. No being of mortal status has ever done such a deed and been allowed to live. Truly Merleptus will be a worthy servant once he has been in the vaults for a time.”
Calic then detailed for Dardiax how the human had tricked him into leaving the scepter and even departed with his favorite Imp. It was this mage of Earth who had set the Demonslayer upon him. Dardiax bowed his head, ashamed of his failings. How could he have let this happen? Yet the fault was not all his own he knew for it was this upstart Merleptus who set it in motion. Indeed as black as the Darkbringer's heart was, even he would not unleash a being such as Calic upon the planes or Earth.
It was then that Dardiax, searching within himself, heard a tiny beseeching voice. He strained to hear its words over the voice of Calic –Matar but could only barely make it out. Figuring he had little left to lose he decided he would open a scrying pool that would lead him to the voice’s owner. Using a long black fingernail he sliced open his ribcage and a dark ichor oozed to the vault floor. After enough spilled to spread into a small puddle he willed the cut to close. At once an image appeared to reveal the speaker as Sniffaro the imp. The creature was magically astute for its kind since it was about to ascend. Taking the form of a full demon it would finally get some modicum of respect. Sniffaro was speaking from the very scrying pool of the mage Calic had spoken so highly of.
“Mighty Dardiax, gneegh, please take’s me back! I don’t wanna serve dis human any more. Please master, take me home!” Clearly the Imp was not wholly aware of Dardiax’s predicament. The Darkbringer knew the Imp could not ascend while on Earth and if it was killed there it would be set back for another century. He had no power left to bring the creature to him from another plane but he thought there yet might be a way.
“Sniffaro, cease you’re whimpering.” He commanded quietly, “Look around the wizard’s chambers for an item that holds power. A staff perhaps or any relic other than that powerless scepter.”
The imp immediately took flight and surveyed the many items that were cast carelessly into the chamber. Many of the items seemed to be of historical significance alone and held no true magic. Other items barely held on to the last vestiges of their magic, having lost their strength to the work of Merleptus. Soon though the Imp had a staff propped on its shoulder
“Gneeeesh, dis tings heavy!”
Dardiax then directed the Imp on what words to chant as he readied a spell that would aid him. Due to the imp’s propensity to fall into an annoying slang the instruction took much longer than he liked. The staff began to glow as its power channeled into the imp then through the scrying pools directly to himself. The Darkbringer heard Calic-Matar curse in surprise as he sensed the power entering the vaults. Thinking his captive too weak to be the source he searched several of the other thirteen pits first. Thus he did not witness the exchange in his vaults. Using the stolen energy of the staff that had once been the prized possession of a Celtic druid for its rainmaking capability, Dardiax cast a spell that allowed him to switch places with the whining Sniffaro.
The next sound the mighty Calic heard was, “Gneeeeaagh!” and he knew he’d lost the weakened Dardiax.
Sensing the new creature’s essence he realized he would be able to put it to as much use as his last captive. He knew a near to ascending imp could be quite compliant if one halted their ascension. Yes, this creature had dealt with all the various players in Calic’s schemes and would provide him with valuable information. Setting his plots in motion would be simpler now and soon all would be begging and crying for mercy as the all powerful, all seeing, Calic-Matar held reign over their wretched lives.


CHAPTER 14
TO WHAT GODS DOES IT MATTER


Some sages believe the Abyss is an endless, unmarked plane, devoid of life and devoid of beauty. Some tell of a many layered Abyss. All the layers being different from the next, thus mirroring the chaotic denizens that lived there. Others ponder that all the darker planes of the many religions such as Tarterus, Nifleheim and even Hell, make up the vast Abyss. In a way each of these ideas is correct, still none are exactly right either.
The Abyss is more like an almost endless spiral, each turn would bring one into another realm full of new life and new mysteries. Although most of the terrain in the Abyss was hazardous and full of demons and the like there were inner realms that were quite hospitable. In fact, perhaps the most out of reach realm at the bottommost twist of the abyssal spiral is more hospitable to mortals or their spirits than any underworld denizen.
This realm was among the largest and more diverse of the Abyss. Covering enough area to be as large as a continent and with every terrain existing there. The spirits of dead Demonslayers and the few other peoples who also worshiped the children of Astnalia were the ruling denizens of the diverse countrysides. For the entertainment of the Demonslayers many demons have called this forgotten level of the Abyss home as well. Here though they were prey instead of predators.
In the sky a miniature sun rose and fell as on Earth and an ocean surrounded the great expanse. It was said that many Demonslayers never realized they had passed away and they continued on as if they had been brought to their god’s realm by accident. For each of the seven godchildren there was a separate kingdom within the realm. At the center of each kingdom stood an immense monolithic tower. So round its berth could cover a whole earthly countryside and so high no end could be discerned. Clay colored solid stone was their make and the towers were mostly featureless except for a distinguishable mark that represented the resident god. At the bottom of each tower was a thirty foot entranceway that stood doorless. A long cobblestone walkway led from several hundred feet away to the opening and was lined by waving pennants bearing the various sigils of Astnalia’s children.
On most days these walkways were lined with petitioners and newly arrived spirits. Today though was not an average day. No beings lined any of the walkways except one in particular. This one led to the silver highlighted tower of the Demonslayer god of law and vengeance, Halren. In truth this was no organized, calmly waiting line of souls. No, this was a clamoring, belligerent, hostile crowd. Cries rang out from those asking, “Where is the vengeance for a whole people destroyed?” These were the several thousand souls that fought the final battle in the city of Slayaria. They were angry and confused. Why hadn’t their gods protected them? Why had the gods allowed their whole race to be destroyed?
They had been there at the foot of the monolith of Halren for a decade and though they had each been given soothing words to calm them, no true explanation had come. Many of the souls called to Halren for his support since he was the god of law. They felt the one god who kept a steadying hand upon the others to prevent total chaos was the best hope of getting satisfaction. Others merely wanted the lord of vengeance to rain down pain and destruction upon the Demonslayer enemies. None had been given a single hint of an answer.
Within the endless tower, upon a demon bone throne, sat Halren. He was wearing polished, fully plated armor and was sharpening needlessly a huge two handed sword. Surrounded by his servant spirits and chosen souls, those that were special to him in life and were granted powers and responsibilities during death, Halren seemed unaware of the crowd outside. Regal in appearance with long golden hair and a full black beard Halren was the perfect judge. It was his duty to judge all spirit’s places in as much as to whether they would come here to this corner of the Abyss or if they deserved some horrible place to dwell for eternity. He had of course brought every soul from Slayaria here to their final home and after Kleana, the goddess of death and love, had guided them to their respective patrons they had still returned to him for answers. Sadly, he had none.
Even the god of law was subject to the commands of the All Mother and he would never think to question her omniscience. She had, on that fateful day, ordered all of her seven children not to interfere. Thus they could do nothing to save the race that had been their main concern for so long. Yet today was special, for Astnalia had sent her messengers to announce a meeting of the gods. She was supposedly going to explain her actions at that time twelve years ago and was also going to reveal new plans for the Demonslayers.
Halren's chosen started in surprise as their silent lord spoke, “Stop looking at me like that.”
None of them had been looking at him so they were at once about to apologize but another voice echoed from the shadows of the great rounded chamber.
“How can you just sit there and be so patient?” The voice was feminine, sensuous and sweet yet sharp and dry.
Stepping from the shadows was the goddess of thieves and mistress of the night, Stingara.
Short, coal black hair framed a demurely smiling face. Her pale skin was like bright moonlight and her eyes reflected the night sky. Skin tight leathers clung to a lean, athletic figure. Seductively she sauntered toward Halren's throne, which sat in the very center of the chamber. In her right hand she flipped a black obsidian dagger, catching it by its tip perfectly every time. Halren's chosen all bowed, not daring to look upon the queen of night. His servants scrambled about the chamber, avoiding her gaze while moving quickly to remove each of their lord’s most prized possessions from the hall. Stingara observed all this and took great satisfaction that the lord of law recognized even he was not immune to the lady of thieves.
Halren did not look away from his sword when he said, “Gods are supposed to be supremely patient.”
“Only stuffy and boring ones.” Stingara bitingly retorted.
She was always a trifle irritated when Halren acted so single-mindedly and seemed so divinely at ease. “As lord of law you know I cannot usually help but do everything I can to annoy you. Oh, but this day I must abort my instincts and concern myself over more important matters.” She pouted and looked deeply saddened.
Finally Halren looked her way, awaiting her explanation.
“You see Halren, I am angry, angry that all we have worked towards with the Demonslayers has been crushed. I am angry over the fact that at the most pivotal time when our aid was needed, when we were given a chance to show once and for all that we are sovereign and the evil of demons and their kind is but an insect to be swatted away, we were disallowed from fulfilling our entire purpose. That which has been our calling for so many ages.”
This brought fire to Halren's eyes as his thoughts echoed Stingara’s words.
“Halren, I only ask that when the time comes and I speak of my anger and disappointment that you do not so quickly disavow my words and bolster our mother’s position. You must realize Astnalia may have been wrong, nay she was wrong and I for one am not afraid to point that out.” Stingara stopped tossing her dagger and folded her arms over her petite bosom, awaiting Halren's decision.
Complete silence enwrapped the two gods and the chosen servants of Halren as the god of vengeance pondered his next words. Sheathing his massive blade the lord of law and vengeance stood before the lady of thievery and the night.
Quietly he said, “I feel as you do and though I could never doubt your unwavering bravery before a foe, I still must remain uncertain if you would choose to confront our mother.” Stopping her irritated retort with a raised hand he continued with resignation in his voice, “Yet, if you must confront Astnalia then know I will support your words for they echo my own thoughts.”
Stingara was satisfied and stood on her tiptoes then hovered another two feet above the floor and placed a gentle kiss upon Halren's cheek. Before he could complete his next thought she was gone. Gone, he knew, to the next god who might stand against her. Halren knew that by the time the meeting began all seven children of Astnalia would agree on one thing, Astnalia had been wrong in holding back her children.

^ ^ ^

Within another monolith, far from Halren’s own, Aeleostrimine awaited her sister’s arrival. The goddess of nature and change understood her brethren better than they understood themselves and had known long ago that it would come to outright blasphemy on Stingara’s part when Astnalia finally chose to discuss the Demonslayers.
The lady of nature and change was an embodiment of her own station within the ranks of the godchildren. Her form was always shaped in a perfect natural state of whatever creature of nature she desired to be at any given moment. As her mood shifted so did her appearance. One moment she was a human woman, another she was a spotted lioness. Like her title and position among Earth’s deities suggested her shape was ever shifting and always reflected a creature born of Earth.
Surrounding the goddess, a number of fearie and human spirits tended to her every whim. Each virtually glowed with energy and had been the mighty amongst her followers during their life and equally so in death. Whether or not Aeleostrimine was currently within her monolith or not would have been an unanswerable question to any casual onlooker. The sun shined bright in an endless blue sky and a pleasant zephyr weaved its way throughout the endless varieties of trees that surrounded her. A pond full of crystal clear water that teemed with all sorts of multicolored fishes lay at the goddess’ feet and the low grass all around it was lush and softer than any mortal made material ever could be. Aeleostrimine would not abide spending her time inside her monolith away from the creatures she so loved. So, within her tower she created another world entire, one that would be for her own enjoyment alone and occasionally that of a favored worshiper.
Shadows were a scant commodity upon that world and Stingara had been hard pressed to find one through which she could enter the nature goddess’ monolith. When she did so, just as when she entered any of the other monoliths, she was noticed immediately.
“Come my sister,” Aeleostrimine beckoned, she had taken the welcoming form of an aged human druid. “Bathe in the reflected light of the earthly sun. It has been too long since you have visited here.”
It was true Stingara did not visit there often, though it was not due to any dislike she had for her often times fickle sister. As the goddess of darkness, she found it quite uncomfortable to be so exposed under the unforgiving rays of the sun.
“Thank you, but I feel better under this willow.”
Aeleostrimine smiled and asked, “Have you come to convince me to join your campaign against our mother?”
Stingara knew before she came that she would be hard pressed to gain the acceptance or at the very least the allowance of the lady of change.
“I have come to ask you not to interfere at the very least, Aeleostrimine. Astnalia allowed our favored to be destroyed and without a single word of explanation.” Stingara said.
“Indeed, but change was an eventuality even we as gods could not avoid.” Aeleostrimine had her argument well planned out long before the angry thief goddess had arrived.
“To one who has many worshipers beyond the Demonslayers I can see how you can be less troubled, but are you so inconsiderate of your fellows?” Stingara asked accusingly. “Do you not see that through the fall of Slayaria our own fate must now come to question?”
“You forget to whom you are speaking. I am well aware that even the fates of gods are not always assured.” Aeleostrimine replied.
“Then what of Earth itself? Are you so concerned with the protection of your precious nature that you would so callously ignore that its stoutest protectors were unmercifully neglected by their creator?” The thief goddess knew she may be pressing the issue but her goal was more important to her than any hurt feelings that might result from her words. Unfortunately she’d forgotten also the lady of changes’ propensity to do just that, change.
With an animalistic growl Aeleostrimine took on the form of a Bengal tiger and stared threateningly into the shadows to which Stingara clung.
“Do not presume to tell me how I should feel, sister. Was it not I that convinced the elves and dwarves to aid Krosten in hiding the children that did survive? In doing so the worshipers of the fey pantheon served in planting the seeds for a rejuvenated people to grow.”
Stingara would not back down. “Without more direct interference do you foresee those seeds growing or are they doomed because they are so few?”
“Does that fact warrant the questioning of our mother? Do you not think she has a higher plan of which we are not yet privy? Has your greed blinded you to the glory that is Gaea?” Aeleostrimine roared then turned into the powerful form of a mountain gorilla. The fearie nearby scurried for cover as they sensed their mistress’ growing ire.
Disarmingly Stingara slowly walked out from under the massive willow tree’s shadow and approached Aeleostrimine, all the while smiling demurely.
“You can mask your true appearance, dear sister, but you cannot hide your discontent. There becomes less and less to concern any of us upon Earth. The other pantheons cling to their worshipers like the coveted golden fruit of Yggdrasil. Soon, even they will lose worshipers as the demons gain stronger foothold and deceive and mislead the mortals of Earth. They are too selfish to become directly involved thus their eventual downfall is as assured as our own. What nature will there be to protect when the misguided mortals despoil the lands under demonic influence?”
Aeleostrimine charged her petite sister and in midstride took the massive form of a long extinct tyrannosaurus. With hot breath that reeked of a recent kill the goddess roared in her sister’s face and replied. “There is no escaping change! That is the nature of all things. Before our mother came to awareness there were elder gods and even they with their alien magic and eldritch sorcery could not stave off the change brought on by Gaea! What do you propose we do, rebel against mother Earth herself?”
Stingara had never seen her sister so agitated before but she was undaunted. “What I propose is an agreed position against our mother, not a war. Too many times have I had good reason to do so in the past to only be pushed aside and treated like a miscreant among my own kind.” It was Stingara’s turn to raise her voice this time as ages of being practically ignored by her brethren came to the surface. “I will not be ignored again. If Astnalia does not wish to return the Demonslayers to us then we must stand together and show her she has no choice. Since our creation we have kowtowed to Gaea and served her without question. No longer, say I!”
Stingara instantly calmed though as Aeleostrimine changed her shape to that of a doe. “It is time for a change my sister.” Stingara said. “No one should know that more than you. Our time as servants to the All Mother must change or the end of everything will be the result.” Stingara used Aeleostrimine’s own edict against her. Change was inevitable in all things, even the supremacy of Astnalia.
Shape shifting again to that of a tiny monkey Aeleostrimine leaped suddenly onto Stingara’s shoulder. Quietly she whispered into her dark sister’s ear and gave her final reply.
With a wide grin Stingara unsheathed the obsidian dagger from her wrist and flipped it end over end with satisfaction. She turned her head slightly and gently kissed her sister upon her furry head and then wordlessly disappeared.
After Stingara’s shadow disappeared from the sunlit realm, Aeleostrimine once again changed forms to one she thought would be more appropriate. Where she had once been lounging she suddenly squirmed and wriggled in the unremarkable form of an earthworm.

^ ^ ^

Far across the abyssal layer upon a great glacial tundra beset by drifting snow and frosty winds, stood another tower. This one was covered in the glistening frost of Anghar, god of battle and cold. Within its halls the matters at hand were being carefully considered. In this tower its lord sat in his favored room but Anghar wasn’t merely brooding. He had long dark hair that ended in braids below his waist and a short white beard of pure snow. Battered armor dressed with shaggy pelts adorned his hugely muscled frame and weapons of all types hung from his wide belt. An icy dual bladed axe was frozen to the back plate of his ice blue armor. Grim and stoic were his demeanor and focused was his gaze.
Anghar stared at a polished shield and upon its reflective surface was his main concern still remaining on Earth. Perhaps one of the last true worshipers he could count among the living. He looked on and though he regretted the painful times Darkon had been through he could not help but be satisfied with the results. Every heartbreak, every loss, brought the mortal closer to the pinnacle of Anghar's teachings. The young warrior had much to learn about fighting and leading for he would one day rule what remained of the Demonslayer people but he had gone far in the ways of hardening his heart.
To Anghar this was good. To revive a lost race Darkon would have to be prepared mentally and emotionally. He must learn never to base his reactions on his feelings and rule only by fact and logical reasoning. It was in this way that Anghar was different from all the other gods of war.
Anghar's way was that of the completely calculating warrior, the soldier who never falls to emotions such as fear or pride. The hero who would never mindlessly hurl himself into a hopeless fight. Darkon was becoming one with Anghar's way. Anghar found it fittingly ironic that at Darkon's side stood a proud disciple of Ares. Galen was Darkon's opposite in all manners of fighting though the two were as brothers in every other way. The god of battle was also proud of Graton for he was also a study of Anghar's way. Though it was preached to the elven people through their own fey pantheon it was Anghar who first taught them its usefulness. Indeed it was the seven gods of the Demonslayers who tutored most of the other earthly pantheons. Having been created first by Gaea they were mature in their godhood when the others were just awakening. Thus no few of those once tutored gods often went against the seven, much like when a spoiled child rebelled against their parents. Anghar never became angry for he understood their actions.
Anghar was angry though at his and his fellow’s inaction during the attack on Slayaria but he, better than the others, understood Astnalia’s command. The Demonslayers had been growing too comfortable within the protective bubble of their own reputations. They moved through the countries of Europa feeling that they were beyond the concerns of other men. Often they would enter an isolated village or community and find the inhabitants seeking help but would give none because there was no demonic involvement. They’d forgotten that not only were demons their enemy but so were the many evil races and monsters that harassed all mortals. They did not keep in mind that evil deities often used demonic servants and worked beside demon worshipers and their powerful lords.
All evil should be the focus of a true Demonslayer’s wrath. Still, over time the people had forgotten these important truths. So the All Mother decided to allow this truth to crush what was left of a misguided but well meaning folk. Yes, Anghar was sad but he was still quite optimistic because he knew that with a new beginning his followers would work hard to reestablish their place on Earth and rejoin the battle against evil.
This was the reasoning he used when the goddess of night came to him. He had not turned her down but neither would he support any movement against Gaea. He knew as well that much of Stingara’s anger was due to the fact she had not even one follower left among the surviving Demonslayers. Though he pitied her that, he would not accept her seeming resignation. Where she had seemed to take the loss of her people as if she could never again gain worshippers he was already planning where his next worshippers were going to come from. All the gods knew that more slayers could be brought to them by the drinking from the Flask of Kings. Though the relic had not yet been recovered he was confident it soon would be.
Anghar had also solemnly watched as the elves and dwarves of Earth had declined century after century. He knew there would someday be a time when only humans dwelled upon the world. Already many of those magical folk’s deities had left their people to they’re seeming fates, going to other worlds where their kind were still strong. He’d known these remnants would soon seek other guidance as they sought to leave for another more hospitable place. Just as the goddess Aeleostrimine, lady of change and protector of nature, had foreseen, the elves and other magical folk would one day need a way to leave this world.
Anghar realized that his charges, the Demonslayers, would have to leave as well. Glad he was that the lady of nature had foreseen this time now soon coming. For now he decided he would bring up the need to move his people and also the elves, dwarves and the like at the meeting that was to take place this very day. He would convince his confused and saddened brethren that hope still remained and they should combine their efforts to find a new world for these people and create a way for them to reach it.
Also, beyond any doubt wise Anghar held he knew that any human with an adventurous spirit would flock to Slayaria at the chance to join its fabled ranks as an initiated Demonslayer. As long as full bloods still lived a chance for rebirth lived as well. All these things and more he would convey to his fellows and surely they would rejoice at his words. Gathering the shield he’d attuned to Darkon and his newfound allies he left his frozen halls for a meeting he longed for. To a meeting that would surely decide the fate of the Demonslayer race.


CHAPTER 15
MOTHER MAY I


Running across a large grassy field upon the abyssal plane of Astnalia’s seven, Kabion was on the hunt. As master huntsman and god of luck this was indeed an every day occasion. He hunted no normal prey though. Demons were his eternal mark and he always succeeded when upon the hunt.
Kabion was handsome beyond belief and any god to have gamed against him in the past always seemed to be left with the feeling the god of luck, because of his charisma, had convinced them he had won. He wore short, sun blonde hair and always went with only a well groomed black mustache. His straight nose and rigid jaw line gave him an airy, noble presence and his lean but strong form promised any god or demon he was well versed in the ways of battle. Wearing only soft leather armor when on the hunt he’d enchanted it such that no natural weapons could pierce it. In his hand was a magnificent, redwood bow. With his godly strength he easily pulled the dragon whisker string even though the wood of the bow had been compressed again and again by an elven deity.
The elven hunt master had lost a bet to Kabion long ago and had created for him the finest bow ever to have been given to a non-elven being. There was a legend among demon kind about a bowman who struck from entire dimensions away. Kabion never missed once he had made his mark and he could indeed do so from dimensions or even worlds away.
His current prey was a demon that had arrived somehow on the seven’s area of the Abyss. Kabion and the other gods often brought chosen demons from the foul layers and placed them strategically among the souls that lived in Nessir’ve, the Slayarian heaven. In doing so the Demonslayers would keep their practice up and keep from getting bored. The only time the god of the hunt interfered was when a demon found a way of its own volition. To do so it would have to be powerful or have powerful friends. Though the Demonslayer’s spirits were no longer in any true danger since death was not a consideration in Nessir’ve, they still could be wronged and brutalized. The nearest facsimile of death was soul dissipation. If a soul exhausted all of its energy it would dissipate and then reform upon the very next day, fully reformed and very angry.
Kabion expected the creature might be a Bulgeashnee, a powerful form of demon that resembled a Minotaur but rather than a bull head it had that of a bison and its body was scaled like that of a brown snake. The creature had defeated a number of nearby Demonslayers in battle and he worried that the demon was possessed of some magic that demons should never be allowed to wield. It had been simple to track since screams had often announced its presence ahead of the trail. It would not be long before he caught up to it and took his mark.
When he did catch up to the demon he did not find it whole as he had hoped. Standing at the center of one of the small towns that nestled within Nessir’ve was the goddess of thieves and the night. At her feet was the much larger form of the Bulgeashnee, bleeding out of only a single puncture wound in its lower back.
“You better have a good explanation for this, dark sister!” Kabion warned blisteringly.
Stingara smiled that same familiar smile and calmly replied. “Hello to you to, brother.” She allowed the huntsman to recover from his anger for a moment before continuing. He hated being shown up and she knew it.
“Kabion, I have come to discuss the meeting today with Astnalia.”
“A meeting? I have not been informed of any meeting.” Kabion hastily replied. It had often been a tactic of his when he wished to excuse himself for not appearing at one of the meetings, though in truth he had never missed any call to order that involved Gaea.
Stingara saw through his deception. How could she not since she was the lady of deceivers?
“The time this day when we will join together and protest Astnalia’s allowing the Slayarians to die on that horrible day, Kabion.” She said.
Kabion visibly grimaced, though upon his remarkable face there was some doubt whether or not he could actually do so effectively.
“Of course you know of what I speak since we all lost so many followers on Earth that day and their questions echo throughout our collective conscience. We have no explanations for those who had been so loyal to us in life. Upon death we are supposed to give them the comfort and reassurance that in life they so craved.”
Before she could finish Kabion added, “And we have failed, yes I know, and I understand, but what is it you want from me?”
Stingara inwardly rejoiced as things went exactly as she had suspected they would. Kabion was practical and he had no patience for word games or small talk. With his simpler way of seeing things he often saw easier ways to accomplish what his fellow gods tended to overmeasure.
Stingara took the few steps that lay between her and Kabion then and she got so close she practically nuzzled his chest. Whispering in a placating tone she said, “Do not worry yourself, I will do all the dealing with Astnalia. All I can ask of you is that you back my position when the time comes.”
Kabion was well aware of what his lovely sister was suggesting and he did not like it. The word of Astnalia was absolute and she had commanded that day when Slayaria met its end that the gods not interfere. He’d not watched, unlike his six brethren. Instead he journeyed the Abyss and found the demon lords mainly responsible and made his bow sing its deadly death dirge. Astnalia had demanded no interference upon Earth, she had not mentioned the Abyss.
That day Kabion killed ten demon lords and left only Dardiax the Darkbringer among the surviving membership of demonic elites. Dardiax had been the least among his kind at the time but became the strongest after that. Eventually other demons would evolve into more powerful lords but it was best the recovering Demonslayers had less powerful foes to oppose them. He had never stopped looking after the Slayarians. Stingara seemed to think just because a Demonslayer didn’t worship her foremost that she was not responsible for their safety or guidance. Time to set her straight.
“You have an annoying tendency to favor particular mortals, Stingara! Your own arrogance became like a pestilence among the Slayarians. I watched countless times as they ignored a threat against others and themselves, leaving them foolishly open to attack or leaving someone else to an unbeatable opponent. Your edict about your followers only aiding the other faithful when it involved demon kind was a cruel and merciless thing to do. It may be as much your fault as Astnalia’s for allowing it to happen. Have you not considered this on your own, or is it eternally dark within your core as well as your tower?”
Stingara had hoped it would not have come to this. Most of the other gods never mentioned these facts since they’d all agreed that they each had been wrong in their own way and would correct these mistakes if ever they were given another chance.
“I admitted my mistakes and I have promised that I will not repeat those teachings.” She proclaimed.
Instantly Kabion changed his tone and said, “Want to bet you don’t succeed?”
A big friendly smile Stingara had learned to fear appeared on Kabion’s face and his hand was outstretched toward her.
Smiling warily Stingara took the god of luck’s hand and shook it in agreement. “I will beseech her to return us to the day or return our people to life. You must not interfere or speak against me.”
With an understanding nod, Kabion agreed.
“For the usual?” He asked.
Grinning wryly Stingara agreed. “A deep orchid.”

^ ^ ^

Kleana was ill at ease, and the goddess of love and death very infrequently felt that way. Her tall and curvaceous figure was enough to kill a man from appearance alone. She was at once morose and vibrant and a man upon seeing her image would border on complete love and horror, leaving him struggling to retain his sanity. Thus the reason her very own spiritual servants, once very mortal, cried and moaned upon the floor of her heart shaped throne room.
Twelve years ago she’d mourned the loss of the living souls she loved and rejoiced when those souls all at once had come home. She felt so ill at ease now for she sensed how one after another her fellow gods aligned themselves with the queen of night. In the mind of Kleana, to align against the All Mother was incomprehensible. To her Stingara was acting foolishly and was completely wrong. The goddess of love and death saw farther into the designs of Astnalia than did the angry goddess of thieves. She knew the Demonslayers could still be saved and she was satisfied with Astnalia's decisions. Apparently Stingara already knew her position and decided it useless to attempt to sway her opinion.
No matter what, Kleana would support the All Mother but she knew that against six opinions two were overruled. Even though the All Mother could completely ignore anyone else’s opinion she never would. Her motherhood made her too kind to ignore her children. If Astnalia were overruled the others would elect to take a more direct hand in the dealings of mortals, specifically the Demonslayers. They may even demand she relinquish souls of the dead for resurrection!
As goddess of love and death Kleana adored the souls in her care thus she fostered what could be treasonous thoughts of how to ensure that all the souls remained with her. She silently swore, which brought more fervent moans of despair from her servants, as she recalled how she’d planned to petition for a guardian of the dead to be created from among the ranks of the living Slayarian heroes. Again and again she had put it off and now it was too late.
She recalled as well, as she had done many times before, the single time one of her brethren had come to her begging the release of a follower’s soul. That had been Throngaer, god of storms and emotion. Throngaer ruled over actual emotional manifestations, beings whose power would be passed on to their slayer or given to one deemed worthy. Throngaer came seeking the soul that had been the manifestation of joy. Kleana knew that Throngaer loved Joy completely and to his utter downfall. His downfall because Kleana would never relinquish a soul unless it was agreed upon by her fellow gods. Throngaer, so wracked with pain from losing someone he so loved ignored normal protocol and mounted an attack upon Kleana's monolith. The storm god loomed on the horizon until a huge thunderstorm soon became a hurricane, the hurricane soon produced several tornadoes and thus she had no recourse but to defend her domain. First she called on Astnalia to stop Throngaer but the All Mother would not interfere. Halren sent chosen messengers to plead with him to calm himself but he ignored them and sent them hurtling away with a whim.
Kleana never enjoyed taking the lives of her beloved Demonslayers and she liked even less having to take love from their very breasts. Yet she knew nothing else would calm the tempestuous god. She erased Throngaer's love for his dead subject and soon the lord of lightning calmed down and even apologized. Though she was successful in safeguarding a soul she was saddened by her fellow god’s loss. To her love in so pure and powerful a form was to be celebrated but instead she was forced to snuff its flame. She knew then that she would not be able to stop six of her brethren and her treasonous musings did not seem practical in the least. It was as she pondered these thoughts when the lady of love heard the voice.
"Come now sister, don’t look so sad." Stingara confidently stepped from the shadows that so filled the heart shaped chamber. Kleana tried not to show any expression and hid her thoughts away from Stingara but her irritation at her sister’s unannounced entrance was still obvious.
"Stingara, I have told you how I deplore your stalking about my chambers." Kleana said coldly.
"Of course," Stingara nodded in respect toward her, "I forgot my manners in my need to speak with you. May I have a few words with you, dear sister?"
Kleana simply nodded her assent, all the while watching Stingara's every move. Dagger flipping in one hand Stingara slowly paced before the throne, pondering her next words well.
"I am well aware of your stance on the matter of the Demonslayers so I will not waste my time or yours on needless cajoling. Instead I will simply ask that you stay out of my way for both our benefits." The night goddess said.
Kleana's hands clenched into fists as she nearly snapped in anger. Surely the thief goddess did not think she would stand idle while a decision pivotal to her domain was made?
Stingara sensed Kleana's rising anger and said, "I assure you, no matter what you do I have gained the voices of four of our fellows. Majority rules dear sister so I ask you to consider what you might gain by aiding us."
This piqued lady love’s interest, she hadn’t thought she would truly gain anything either way.
Stingara continued, "You see, I am well aware of your desire for a guardian of the dead and I am privy to certain information that proves only a living Demonslayer can be initiated to the demi-god status necessary. Therefore I point to this truth in my case that a mass revival is in order."
"Mass revival?" Kleana suspected Stingara would attempt such a thing but was still shocked when the words were spoken.
"Yes. Perhaps a few hundred of the most devoted souls." Stingara purred.
Kleana was aghast, never would she allow such a thing and surely her mad sister knew that. Never could such a thing occur and she knew that she might end up fighting her brethren over this point. She’d often pondered what toll a return to life would take on the souls she tended. She knew for sure that the zealousness in which the Demonslayers took to their callings would increase tenfold if they were aware of the paradise that awaited them in death. They may even become reckless and hurl themselves into foolish acts that would send them prematurely into their final home.
She answered the scheming goddess in a threatening tone. "Know you this, sister. I will fight a war of gods and soul armies between my own kind before I allow such a thing to be."
Stingara seemed to expect this and smiled demurely, "Of course, sweet sister." She then spoke to no one Kleana could see. "So you now witness, it is as I have told you. Kleana would rather send all the souls of our charges into battle and chaos than simply restore their lives which were so wrongly taken from them."
Then a firm and vengeful voice rang out through Kleana's halls, "We have witnessed and noted. Your reluctance to side with us reflects your self-absorbed nature. Know you that we will not abide your interference and thus we condemn you for the next day to an abyssal void from which even Astnalia cannot return you."
Rising from the floor a mist snaked swiftly about Kleana's legs. She began to scream in anger but instantaneously disappeared. Silence followed and several of Kleana's unseen servants could be felt to pass by the spot where she’d been sitting and then exit the chamber. Outside the monolith of death and love a soul just about to enter its massive doorway was halted as solid stone suddenly filled the opening.
Again the voice echoed throughout the halls of death. "None will report what has occurred and Kleana shall not interfere for at least this meeting."
Stingara nodded in understanding and tossed her dagger ever higher in glee. Her plans were coming to fruition and she would soon be observing the resurrection of a fallen race. She knew Astnalia would be angry with her when her methods came to light but stealth and subterfuge were the only methods the goddess of night knew how to employ. Returning with a whim to her forever night kingdom, she prepared herself for the fateful meeting that was about to occur. She changed her usual roguish attire to a flowing, sheer, shadowy gown. Showing enough to entice even a god yet withholding enough to not offend the pure All Mother. Placing on her magnificently lovely and softly glowing face a demure smile she then disappeared from her monolith to reappear in the hall of law.
The hall was within the domain of Halren and all the godly meetings were held there. Seven thrones were carved into the very walls at either side of the long chamber. Intricate mosaics covered the walls in between the thrones and the floor upon which stood several statues. Each statue appeared most lifelike in its depiction of one of the more beloved Demonslayer hero’s it had been sculpted to honor.
Six of the seven thrones became occupied in the exact same moment and only Anghar seemed disconcerted by Kleana's absence. The others simply avoided looking at her throne. At the head of the hall of law a powerful illumination soon took shape from a flickering candle’s flame. This end of the hall was also covered in mosaics but these were different. Different in that each of the other gods seemed to reflect the images around them. This one depicted a myriad of visions that were all at once pleasing and mind numbing to any who pondered them. The face of the All Mother was that of everything and of nothing. The images did reflect the awesome aspect of life in all its myriad incarnations.
Forming from light itself she was at once young as a child and as ancient as the very earth. She was the most splendid thing for any man or beast and god alike to ever witness. As the All Mother looked upon her favorite children she smiled, and that small gesture brought tears to the eyes of every god present. Even grim Anghar whose eyes trickled hailstones that pinked when they hit the floor.
All ears waited to hear her exquisite voice as she opened both her arms as if to embrace her children with a gesture.
"My children, I have called you all here so that I could explain to you my plans for the future. Instead it seems my need to apologize has taken precedence. I have been so preoccupied lately I have neglected to tell you my reasons for allowing the beloved Demonslayers to decline."
Astnalia paused a moment and looked each of her beloved children in the eye. Unnoticed by the others, Stingara nearly stood and spoke but found herself unable to move. There was no interrupting now, no matter what one might intend.
Astnalia continued, "I bid you all to recall the world of Kole where we had sought to place a seat of power ages ago. Recall the expanse of its lands, its adversity of life, culture and religion. We are not the only ones to have coveted the lands upon the world of Kole. Most every pantheon of Earth has a foothold there now, as do many more gods unknown to me. Now look upon our small world here. You've all noticed the decline of magic and fey folk. So I now ask you to envision it centuries and even millennia into the future."
As each god followed her instructions, one by one they spat in disgust for what was one day to come. Soon there would be no sentient races other than humans and these no longer respecting any true religion. Overpopulation would bring such things as extinction of most animals and destruction of the Earth itself. Slowly, humans would defile the very body of the All Mother and desecrate the memory of her and all the pantheons.
It was Halren who stood from his throne then, landing on his knees with a great boom. Hands outstretched before him he beseeched, "Sweet Gaea, please tell us how this might be avoided!"
Then it was Aeleostrimine, goddess of change and mistress of nature, who replied, "Save your tears, Halren. Nothing can stop change."
Astnalia smiled and said, "Aeleostrimine is correct. Yet change can be avoided if one knows the way to do so. Kole is that way."
Anghar spoke up this time with exuberance clear in his voice, which was so uncharacteristic of him that even the All Mother seemed surprised.
"Of course! It is as I have hoped. Gaea, surely you’ve known how not only the Demonslayers have been in decline but also several other folk have begun to fall as well. Their own gods have mostly left their followers to Aeleostrimine's hand. I have seen this and have pondered where these poor souls will go upon their deaths."
Astnalia answered this sadly, "They will be left to the astral plane where they will drift for eternity, unfulfilled and confused."
"Then I ask you, mother, why can we not invoke the caress of Astnalia and bring these abandoned people to our ways? They will be the new Demonslayers! Together with the few remaining true bloods they will gather many more willing humans as well. All that needs be done is returning the Flask of Kings to the remaining high priest." Anghar could not conceal his enthusiasm.
He then slid off his throne and fell to his knees as Astnalia graced him with a very personal smile. “Anghar has followed the path of enlightenment. Have any of you done so as well?”
The All Mother smiled and allowed the others to feel their guilt for a small moment before she continued. “I sense some misgivings among you and guilt among others. Feel not lone responsibility for you have only followed your nature and I am pleased. Kleana, I am sure, bears no ill will toward any of you.”
With a gesture towards the goddess of love’s throne Astnalia returned Kleana to her rightful place.
The grim death queen looked to her misguided brethren and said, “I do forgive you all. My love for you is no less.”
Halren was so ashamed he could only stare at his silver boots. Aeleostrimine, Throngaer and the rest looked to Kleana and smiled. All of them loved Kleana immensely and could not quite recall why they’d allowed her banishment in the first place. Stingara though, had without being seen, moved to stand before the All Mother.
She explained her motives saying, “I have not a single follower left. What am I to do? Why should I still be here at all if I have no purpose to strive for? Please, mother, help me.”
Astnalia smiled warmly, basking the queen of night in the rays of her awesome brilliance. “You are forgiven, Stingara. You act only as you can, as you must. Thus I bid you pay heed to the logic of Anghar and know that worshippers are even now being moved toward you. Ask Anghar what he watches in that shield he carries and very soon you will see your next and most pivotal followers.”
Humbled and stricken with the inspiring kindness of Gaea, Stingara melted as a shadow into the etched floor. The others could not believe they’d gone along with the night goddess, neither could they believe they’d nearly forgotten how mighty sweet Gaea truly was. Her image alone was enough to strip deception from the very goddess of thieves! They felt no more guilt. The mother had eliminated that notion. Now they felt an urge so strong they barely remained where they sat. An urge to peer at all of Earth’s denizens to find candidates for the new Slayarians.
Astnalia sensed the hope she and Anghar had spread among the children and rejoiced. She blessed them all and before she departed the abyssal realm she appeared in all her omnipotent glory before the angry Demonslayer souls. One by one, they left Halren's tower and headed toward the kingdom of their respective patrons, all now realizing the wisdom of Gaea and their own foolishness for ever questioning her. They recalled how careless they had become, how selfish in life. Though they still revered their gods the lack of any demonic foes had made them forget what their ancestors had stood for. They thought their duty was finished with demons alone but they were wrong and they all paid with their lives, lives that were becoming empty and unfocused. Personal gain and the power of station was becoming more important than the glory of vanquishing evil, be that evil demon or otherwise. Gaea had seen this and decided to call her wayward children home so that they might relearn who they were and what it was they were supposed to represent.
Here in Nessir’ve they were again true Demonslayers without the distractions of mundane concerns. Those found worthy might even have the chance to be reborn and again serve the gods in life. The wisdom of Astnalia was boundless and her beloved children were joyous in knowing that to be so. Finally the dead rested and celebrated their arrival in Nessir’ve. They thanked Gaea for allowing them to come home regardless of their transgressions and they waited with excitement for word of the few remaining living Slayarians. The most fervent hope of all of the souls, both ancient and new, was that a call would ring out for the mustering of the soul armies. War was a much less daunting thing when one had no fear of losing their life. Actually, war was a promising concept when it might be fought against demon hordes or other god armies.
Unlike demons the souls of Nessir’ve could not be destroyed by anything short of a god. So if they lost a war one day they could return the next completely restored while the enemy would be sorely weakened. This was why no demon or the like ever directly challenged the gods or their soul armie’s. Astnalia had strengthened her armies in the spirit realm and left her mortal followers to grow stronger upon the mortal one. The few survivors would become as strong and wise as their ancestors under the duress of being so few. All praised the wisdom of Astnalia, mother and protector of us all.


CHAPTER 16
BROKEN TIES


Watchmaster Brolin Lenkeft rose unsteadily from the table, spilling the remaining stale ale from his mug in the process. He fumbled momentarily for his cloak hanging from the back of his chair, knocking it over as well with a solid backhand as if it had somehow offended him. Several of his watchmen gave hearty laughs and cheered his victory over the chair, holding their mugs high in salute. A serving wench passing by suddenly found herself wrapped in the large cloak and pulled in tight against the barrel chest of the burly watchmaster. Her eyes watered at the foul mixture of odors that clung to this so called protector of the people.
“Look at this mess you’ve here, wench! Yer a sad excuse for a serving girl but you’d make a fine whore I’m betting.” He leaned down still holding the struggling girl tight and ran his wet tongue from her chin to her ear.
Gagging from the stench of his ale laden breath and the scent of rotting onions which wafted from under his stained military tunic she took the dirty wash rag from her apron and wiped the slimy residue from her cheek. Having had enough of this game the watchmaster flung the girl free of his cloak. She spun wildly for a moment coming to rest with a thud upon the table from which he had risen. Her bottom was soaked with spilled ale as she rose silently off of the table. She clenched her teeth and remained silent in the face of jests from the other watchmen as she started to clean the spilled drink and toppled chair.
Outside the tavern Brolin stopped to take a breath of air and regain a bit of his senses. It had been a long night and a profitable one too. He had won many games of dice and of course drank for free. It was good to be king, or in his case watchmaster. He laughed to himself as he stomped into the muddy street leaving the noise of the Twisted Ogre tavern behind.

^ ^ ^

Tolbin Friel glanced about nervously at the shadows cast by the flickering street lanterns hanging at intervals along Bay Street. Boxes and crates stacked along the roadside before the warehouses that fronted the Mourning Bay crowded the street making it seem more an alley. A bead of sweat formed on the spice merchant’s bald forehead and ran its way around his right eye and down his temple to his neck where it disappeared beneath his silver threaded shirt. Behind him something skittered into a space between two crates. His pudgy fingered hand went to his side as he whirled about toward the sound. He fumbled with the pommel lock on his dagger sheath frantic to release the dull blade from its resting spot. When finally he held the dagger shakily before him he saw nothing but shadows and crates before him.
“Damn sewer rats.” Tolbin pulled a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his blue surcoat, as he turned back to his vigil upon the street, and dabbed at his sweat covered head and face.
As he lowered the damp cloth from his face he gave a short startled gasp as a hand clamped over his mouth. Fingers dug sharply into his cheeks holding firm to his face. Another hand gripped his wrist in a vice like lock. His brown eyes bulged as he looked into the face of the tall man who held him firm. The tall man peered close at the shaking merchant that he held.
He brought his hook nosed face close to that of his captive and gave the merchant a sparse toothed grin. “You’d be counted a wise man if ya dropped that pig sticker before I get the impression ya be thinking me an oinker.”
The sound of the falling dagger was muffled as the tall hook nosed man caught the dagger on the top of his boot. With a flick of his foot he sent the dagger into the air beside himself. He released his grip on the merchant’s wrist and caught the dagger by the sweaty grip and slid it gently into his worn leather belt.
“Now, sir spice man, that we have the formalities out of the way let us get to the heart of the matter?” He helped the trembling spice merchant to nod before releasing the grip on the man's face.
Tolbin tried vainly to compose himself by smoothing his surcoat and dabbing at his profusely sweating head.
“You gave me quite a start good man” His voice quivered with obvious nervousness.
The hook nosed man glanced down at a spreading wet spot, which had appeared in the center of the rotund mans blue trousers, and scoffed.
“So I noticed. You have been making inquiries about services ya need rendered. I am here to listen to your requests and make judgment on your needs. Speak freely and quickly my time is costly.”
The spice merchant began to speak in hushed tones telling a tale of underground trading looked over by the town watchmen in exchange for kickbacks paid in gold coin at the start of every month. At the start of this Octenbur things had changed horribly. Watchmaster Brolin had come personally to his modest shop in the business district to collect the month’s payment. When Tolbin had produced the pouch of gold for the Watchmaster, Brolin pocketed it then told him the price had doubled. Being a spice merchant was not an extremely lucrative business but it kept his family clothed and sheltered with enough left over to pay for the schooling of his daughters. Even with the extra that he made in the underground trade of some outlawed herbs he was by no means a wealthy man. Tolbin pleaded with the Watchmaster to understand and finally Brolin nodded.
“Very well, I will have to garner my payment from you some other way.” He gazed about the shop filled with aisles of exotic herbs and spices brought in from all corners of the world. Just then Amelisia the fair haired and youngest daughter of the merchant stepped into the shop from a doorway covered with a beaded curtain. She wore a simple dress of blue with yellow flowers. Around her waist was tied a work apron and in her hand she held a feather duster that had seen better days. She smiled warmly at her father and the Watchmaster, apparently oblivious as to what was transpiring. She began to lightly dust the many jars and vials on the shelves. Brolin’s eyes looked hungrily at the young girl like a wolf drooling over a straggling lamb. Brolin reached over the wooden counter top and grabbed the merchant by his shirt collar. He laid the pouch of gold that he had pocketed back on the counter and whispered into his ear.
“I am a fair man Tolbin so hear now how payment shall be made. One...no, two hours spent in the company of the sweet lass yonder and I’ll consider this month and next paid in full. That will give you time to gather the proper amount of coinage for the next payment.” He smiled ruefully at the trembling merchant.
Before the merchant could protest his face slammed hard into the counter top. A blaze of stars clouded his vision and he could hear his daughter screaming for him over and over. He tried to stand but only managed to roll over and moan in pain and anguish. Then all was silent in the Spice of Life shop.
When he had regained his senses, his wife and eldest daughter were beside him in hysterics. He could not call the town watch for Brolin was master. He couldn’t go to the town’s council of elders for it would be weeks before a scheduled hearing and in the meantime he would be at the mercy of the Watchmaster. He could only wait and pray to the gods for the salvation of his pure sweet daughter.
Two watchmen escorted his youngest daughter home, her blue dress torn and soiled. Her honey golden hair matted and in knots. Her innocent and clear blue eyes stared blankly as if into the realms beyond. Her pouting lips moved but no sound issued forth from her. Tolbin ran to his daughter to embrace her but a terrible shrieking and flailing tantrum held him at bay. His wife and other daughter carried the traumatized girl to her room where she had been since a fortnight ago.
“So you see good sir, that is why I have come to you. You are my only hope of exacting justice for my daughter’s lost innocence. I have four pouches of gold, two months protection from Brolin. These I offer to you in exchange for avenging my daughter’s honor.” He opened his surcoat and there tied inside the breast were four small pouches.
The street hardened look left the hook nosed man for just a moment before he shook his head and spoke.
“You’re not a very wise man. Ya let yourself be caught in a trap that has no escape.” He chuckled grimly. “Do you think that we are so above the law? If I were to give the order to exact vengeance upon the good Watchmaster my guild and every member in it would be burned out and hunted down like rats. No, spice man. I can’t help ya. Be glad ya still have your daughter and give the gold to Brolin. Because for some strange reason ya have made me feel pity for ya I won’t even lift the pouches from ya. Now go, before I have a change of heart.”
Tolbin began to protest but was doubled over in pain by a sharp blow to the gut. When he looked up the man was gone and he was alone again in the street and his dagger lay at his feet.

^ ^ ^

From between two crates crept a silent observer. The shadows clung to him like the early morning dew upon the tall grass. He watched the merchant make his way along the road and out of sight around the corner. He had performed his task in this play well by distracting the merchant long enough to allow Drelk Longfingers to surprise him. He had listened to the exchange between the merchant and his superior in the Shadow Guild. He was touched by the merchant’s story and at the same time disappointed at his part in the meeting. Too long had he been the decoy or the look out for the guild’s activities. Four years he had been among the members of the guild and still they thought of him as little more than a boy. He was small, standing only five foot four inches. And he did have the look of a young boy. Though he was seventeen years old he still had no facial hair and his skin was smooth and clear. Even with the fact that he was small, beneath his black hooded cloak his muscles were corded and primed from years of living on the streets. He knew it would cost him his place in the guild but he decided he would take it upon himself to do the merchant’s bidding. He would prove to the guild that he was no boy anymore. And then he would leave this city with four pouches of gold to seek his fortune. He leapt straight up landing silently upon one of the crates he had been hiding near. His soft elk skin boots made barely a whisper of sound as he alighted upon the wooden top. Without hesitation he leapt again. His fingertips caught the edge of the warehouse roof. Silently with feline grace he launched himself up and over using only the muscles in his arms and back. He landed in a crouch upon the roof. He glanced about for signs of life but all was still and silent. With practiced skill he began to follow the merchant from above.
Leaping from rooftop to rooftop and crossing cables pulled tight to support the buildings during storms the young stalker easily shadowed the distraught merchant back to his humble shop. Tolbin stood before the red wooden door and fumbled momentarily with a small key ring. He turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. The scent of herbs and spices drifted out as the man stepped inside. Something dropped from the roof above the door. Tolbin began to turn back but was pushed from behind. He stumbled forward and caught himself upon the wooden counter top. He heard the door close behind him and the clicking of the lock as it was set in place. He pushed himself off of the counter and turned to confront whoever it was that had attacked him.
Standing before him was a young boy. He was dressed in a tattered black cloak and faded brown cotton breeches. A pair of well made soft fur boots, obviously stolen from some poor fop, who passed out from too much drink no doubt, rode to midcalf. The boy stood with his arms crossed and his legs spread at shoulder width. His steel gray eyes gazed intently at the merchant from beneath black curling locks that fell to just below his ears.
Tolbin's face reddened with anger. He had been through too much these past weeks and now this boy wished to assault him in his own home? He could take no more and would teach this impish rogue a lesson in manners. He drew himself up and took a step toward the young boy. But before he could take another the youth gave him a wide and bright smile.
“Well met, master Tolbin. I accept the offer you made in the dock ward and will exact vengeance for you and your family.”
Tolbin stopped in his tracks and his look softened. His anger was replaced by a saddened look and he shook his head. “Thank you child for your most noble offer but the matter is beyond you, I’m afraid.”
Now it was the boy who looked angered. “Don’t let looks deceive you, old man. It was no sewer rat that startled you on that street, and no mere boy you look upon now. I am your last hope so think hard on your next words. I’ll take two pouches of gold now and two when the object of your pain lays cold and stinking in the gutter.” He extended his hand and gazed unblinkingly at the visibly shaken merchant.
Tolbin looked back at the youth that spoke with authority and confidence. He gave a short nod and tugged free two small pouches from inside his surcoat. He placed them in the boy’s hand but didn’t release them.
“I want him to know why he is dying.” His voice sounded hoarse with emotion.
“He will know, good sir.” The boy nodded solemnly. “I will see to it. You will hear from me when it is time for the final payment.”
With one hand behind him the boy unlocked the door and pulled the latch. With the other he gripped the two pouches of gold and nodded to the tired and beaten merchant.
“Rest assured soon this will all be over.” With that the boy turned and went through the opened door, melting into the night.
Tolbin could only think of his broken daughter and how this may never be over for her. He stifled a sob and took a deep breath to steady himself. He locked the door to his shop and went through the beaded curtain to his families living quarters. He needed to change and wash up before his family awoke.

^ ^ ^

From darkened alleys and rooftops, behind carts laden with merchandise and in doorways cloaked in shadow he watched his target for several days. He followed discreetly as Brolin made his rounds checking in on his watchmen at their stations. He watched the large soldier bullying the weak and taking what he desired from the hard working peddlers in the open market. He learned quickly where the Watchmaster spent his off hours. He waited patiently in the alley beyond the Twisted Ogre each night as Brolin drank and gambled. He listened in as the man degraded the serving girls and threatened the owner.
How such a degenerate made his way to the rank of Watchmaster was beyond the young man’s comprehension, but it didn’t matter. Soon Brolin Lenkeft would bother no one else.
The Shadow Guild would finally see that their trusty boy was worthy of the respect he deserved. Certainly he would not be able to return to the guild after his job was complete but that mattered little. He had no feelings for anyone there. They were just instruments of learning and he had been taught well. Finally he would be in charge of his own life, and people would learn to respect the name, Ralac.
He crouched beneath a broken cart in an alley across from the Twisted Ogre. It had rained earlier making the hard dirt streets and alleys turn to slippery orange mud. Now a fine mist had crept in from the bay.
The door to the tavern swung wide, the raucous laughter and drunken banter issued out into the streets from within. Watchmaster Brolin stepped out onto the wooden porch before the tavern. He took a deep breath and stretched a moment before making his way into the street. He made his way directly toward the ally where Ralac had set his ambush.
The young assassin slipped his fine steel dagger from within his cloak and drew his hand up into his sleeve. Gently he pulled the dark hood about his face concealing his light complexion. Just beyond his position in the ally lay one of the pouches of gold given to him by the merchant. With one of the coins Ralac had purchased the services of a wizard’s assistant. He had asked the assistant to make the pouch glow in the darkness. It was a simple spell and well worth the one gold coin he had paid for it. The pouch lay there in the mud just past the broken cart glowing faintly with a greenish hue.
Brolin made his way to the alley like he had every night that Ralac had followed him. He could hear the man muttering to himself about ungrateful wenches as he slogged past the living shadow that watched from under the cart. Ralac tensed, preparing to strike like a viper in the tall grass. The Watchmaster stopped before the glowing pouch with his back to the cart.
With a snorting chuckle the man bent forward reaching for the pouch. “Heh, my luck just gets better and better.”
Before his hand touched the glowing pouch it was seized. Ralac darted silently and swiftly from beneath the cart. He reached between the large warrior’s legs and grabbed his wrist with his left hand. He leapt backward still holding the man’s wrist and pulling it back between his legs. Brolin gave a startled yelp as he flipped head over heals and landed on his back in the muddy street. The wind rushed from his lungs from the impact and his left arm lay twisted at an odd angle underneath him. Ralac ran the razor sharp blade across the biceps of Brolin's right arm and let it fall limply into the mud as he leapt onto the man’s barrel chest. Brolin gasped for precious air but the young assassin had no compassion. He clamped his left hand over the Watchmaster's mouth and brought his face close.
“Look into the face of death, brave protector of the people! Make peace with your gods for you’re soon to stand before them in judgment.” Ralac smiled at the sight of the Watchmaster.
Sweat ran in streams about his face and his eyes were wide with fear. Ralac thought with silent disdain how this so called man of the people looked much like a steer that knows its soon for the butcher block. He shook his head in disgust.
“One more thing. The spice merchant wanted you to know that I am his family’s justice.” Ralac whispered into the man’s ear.
Brolin shook his head violently to protest but the boy straddling his chest held an iron grip upon his face. Something smooth and cool ran across his throat. He felt warm fluid spread across his chest as the boy leapt to his feet. Brolin tried to take a breath but found himself choking as the blood filled his lungs. Ralac stepped back into the shadows to watch the final agonizing moments of the Watchmaster’s life. When all was still once again in the alley he stepped from the wall and retrieved the faintly glowing pouch. In a few short leaps he was atop the roof of the nearest shop and on his way to collect payment.


CHAPTER 17
CHANCE ENCOUNTERS


The full moon had risen behind the lone traveler not long after he had made his way from the sparse woodlands surrounding the Broken Hills. His dapple gray mare snorted at the low fog rolling across the ground about them as they now traveled westward along the old marsh road toward the small coastal city of Thrinedor. The stone curtain wall was already visible to the man though he was still perhaps more than a mile from the city. It stood out against the inky blackness of the night horizon as a large pale blue rectangle surrounded by a faint pinkish glow. He scanned the surrounding countryside with his keen infravision but saw nothing of interest in the soft bent grass that grew in abundance throughout the marshlands.
Tam Geminilanthis reflected on his place in life during the quiet time he had on the road. He thought about old friends and family that he would probably never see again. While most other elves were heeding the call to return to the sacred groves and secluded vales from whence they originated he continued his travels o’er the lands held by the humans. Deep in his elven heart he felt there was something wondrous about to take place on this yet primal world. How could he withdraw from this still untamed land and its many layers of existence? Of course the elven homelands were unrivaled in their beauty and splendor but he was extremely curious and had a lust for knowledge. Magic was his life’s work and if he returned with the other elves to the homelands it would only be elven magic that he would study. Out beyond the sanctuary of his homeland, in this rugged and savage land, life was a struggle. Challenges abounded around every bend in the road keeping one’s senses sharp. He would explore the far corners of this world and the planes beyond to further his knowledge of the arcane. Then he would find his way back to the elven homeland and enrich his people with his findings.
His thoughts turned from his musings as he drew close to the stone wall surrounding the small city. Two short towers flanked a strong steel portcullis that barred entrance into the city until first light. He drew his mare up before the towers and withdrew an oil soaked torch from his saddlebag. He raised the torch above his head and spoke softly the words of a minor enchantment. Instantly the torch sparked to life illuminating the lone traveler and his mount.
A gruff voice sounded from within the tower to the left flank of the portcullis, “Hold and state your business!”
Geminilanthis no longer had the advantage of his infravision because of the light radiating from the torch. He could still sense he was being watched by several sets of eyes and his keen elven hearing picked up the sound of at least two crossbows being cocked.
“I am but a weary traveler who has been many days upon the hard road. I seek only a soft bed and warm meal for the night, good sirs.” The elf returned.
Fully aware of the answer he was about to receive the elven mage slowly slipped his free hand inside the long leather coat he wore when on the road. Crisscrossing the quilted blue elven stitched shirt he wore beneath the coat were a pair of bandoleers. Each held an assortment of exotic herbs, minerals, dried animal parts and other various components used for the casting of spells. Gently, even as the man in the tower began to speak, Geminilanthis opened one of the bandoleer’s many pockets and pinched a small amount of dust from within. He whispered words arcane as the guard recited statutes of the city that forbade entrance after dusk. As the man droned on Geminilanthis pinpointed the window from which the man spoke. He concentrated on the man’s voice, finished the short incantation that would allow him to implant a suggestion in his mind, and raised his hand before his face. He snapped his fingers that held the ground and dried, pigeon brain dust.
He lightly spit across his fingers focusing his full attention on the man hidden in the darkness of the tower window and spoke his suggestion. “I understand your duty to the people, good sir, but I’m sure this one time you could make a small exception and allow a poor traveler entrance”
It didn’t take long for the spell to take effect especially since the men had been drinking strong ale as they manned their stations.
“Raise the gate enough for him to pass” Called the watchman in command of the tower. “Dismount and pass through traveler. And next time you pass this way ride that horse like you mean it and get here before sundown.”
Geminilanthis smiled inwardly at the man who seemed so in control. “Thank you, good sir. I shall heed those words in the future.”
As he passed through the gate he tossed a silver coin to the guard operating the winch. “A small token of my appreciation to you and your men, good sir. I’m sure a bottle of fine brandy would keep your souls warm this night.”
From the shadows above the watch commander responded. “Very thoughtful, traveler, enjoy yer stay and keep the peace!”
As the mage guided his steed through the open courtyard that led into the city the commander called out once more. “Yer name, good sir, so that I can mark my log.”
Never turning back the elf called over his shoulder “I am known as Gemini, sir. Just Gemini.”
The courtyard was crowded with a multitude of merchant wagons and covered carts. To his left were wagons preparing to depart the city in the morning to travel inland selling and trading wares brought from lands across the sea. MercenAres from various lands relaxed by cooking fires in small camps set up by their employers. To his right was staged a merchant caravan that had entered the town late in the day. At first light the caravan would make its way to the center of the town market area where the merchants would rent space for several days before booking passage to lands beyond.
Past the court he found himself in a residential district comprising of one and two story buildings. Most were white washed stucco dwellings but dotted here and there were wealthier abodes made of stacked stone or brick. He passed a small corner tavern and smiled to himself as the sounds of song and laughter reached his ears from within.
After remounting he made his way through several neighborhoods traveling toward the center of the city. The buildings here were built closer together and raised higher then those on the outskirts. The scent of spicy stew caught his nose, causing his stomach to rumble slightly. He steered his way down a side street and came upon a three story high, stacked stone inn called the Silver Bite. Candles burned merrily in each window of the upper stories and the main hall below was alive with the evening festivities. A young girl dressed in the common garb of a stable hand met Gemini and took the reigns from him as he dismounted.
“Three copper for the eve, milord.” She smiled up at the tall elf as he placed four shiny coppers in her outstretched hand. “Thank you, lord, I’ll see she’s well fed and brushed down nice.”
Inside he found a warm fire burning in a large stone hearth. Above the mantle hung a broken sword. Its two pieces flanked the ever staring head of a junta wyrm. Its gaping maw showed dual rows of silvery razor sharp teeth. A sturdy oak finished bar ran the length of the back wall with a door behind it leading to the kitchen. Rows of wooden stools sat before the bar and most were now occupied by folk enjoying the evening repast. Round tables were laid out across the wide taproom in a seemingly random order. The aroma of freshly baked sweet cheese bread caught Gemini’s nostrils bringing a fresh bout of stomach rumblings. He made his way to an empty table by a window near the hearth that offered a view of the businesses across the street. Once settled in he overturned one of the upside down mugs on his table.
Promptly a serving wench was at the table. Her long black hair was pulled back into a pony tail that streamed below her waist. She wore a form fitting blouse of midnight blue with a silver wyrm crest sewn upon the breast pocket. She poured rich dark lager into the mug from a pitcher she carried. Leaning close to the elf to better hear over the din of the gathered crowd, she gave a broad smile and a wink from one of her strikingly green eyes.
“What can I get for you this eve, sweet? We have a fine barley and beef stew, and roast pheasant with a carrot stuffing.” She reached out and gently touched one of Gemini’s pointed ears running her finger down to the lobe that held a small platinum hoop earring. “Not often we see the fair folk this way anymore.”
He returned the bright smile of the server and took her hand in his own.
“Well, kind lady, I will have a bowl of that tantalizing stew that so beckons to my taste buds. And a loaf of that sweet cheese bread that has set my belly speaking angrily to me.”
He gently kissed her knuckle and turned her hand over to reveal a gold coin laid into her palm. “I would also like a bath and a bed for the night if that would cover it”
“Covered indeed. kind sir. When you are ready to retire a warm bath will be waiting and I will show you to your room.” She beamed him another bright smile and spun away for the kitchen on shapely legs made strong from years of working the floor of the taproom.
The meal was exceptional and the tall lean elf ate two bowls of the hearty stew and all but a quarter of the loaf that he had wrapped in waxed paper. He sat back in his chair and put his feet up on one of the empty chairs beside him. A curved pipe of porcelain he produced from a pocket inside his traveling coat that lay across the back of his chair. He popped open one pouch upon the bandoleer and pinched a wad of black Turl root and packed it gently into the bowl. Lighting the pipe from the flame of his table candle he drew deep the rich musky smoke and relaxed to the songs of a minstrel who had begun to play his lute beside the glowing hearth.
The dark lager and Turl root did their job well to release the tension in road weary muscles. He caught the green eyed server’s attention and nodded toward the stairs by the front entrance that led to the rooms upstairs. Soon he found himself immersed in the steaming potpourri water of a tub that had been brought into his room. The room was simple with one window that looked out upon the stables, a simple bed with a mattress made of soft down, and a standing closet with mirrored doors to hold one’s personals.
He leaned back against the tub as gentle fingers massaged his shoulders and crept smoothly over his chest. One hand revealed an ear through shoulder length black hair that was streaked upon the sides with wings of gold coming together in a point upon the back. Soft lips kissed and gingerly nibbled the edges of his elven ears as wandering hands explored deeper waters.
“Nerielle you certainly do know how to treat your guests. I could get used to being pampered like this.” He took her hand from the water and guided her naked form from behind the tub to come beside him. “I saw how hard you worked this night. Let me show you a few elven secrets.”
Her eyes lit with excitement and she quivered slightly as she stepped in and sat with her back against the elf’s chest. Soon Nerielle was drifting in ecstasy as practiced hands caressed and kneaded her soft and yielding form.

^ ^ ^

His eyes opened instinctively bringing him fully awake in an instant. Nerielle lie by his side fast asleep. Her breathing soft and steady. He slipped from the bed retrieving the wand he had secured under the mattress as he stood. He stepped to the side of the window and peered out cautiously toward the stables. There before the closed doors stood a man gazing up at his window. His eyes glowed softly in the darkness and his naked body stood out in the hazy moonlight. He made no movement but the elf could feel the man’s eyes upon him. Gemini stepped to the closet and opened the mirrored door. Quickly he donned his shirt and leather breeches. In seconds his bandoleers were secured across his chest and his wand belt buckled tight. He stepped quickly into his boots and with a quick motion of his fingers he released a minor spell of securing that caused the leather lacing of his boots to pull tight. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder he took note of Nerielle’s still form in the bed. He grabbed his leather riding coat and threw it over his shoulders as he closed the closet door. Reflected in the mirror was the glowing stare of the inhuman male. He seemed to be standing on thin air outside the now open window with his hollow gaze directed toward the sleeping woman.
Gemini hissed a single word of arcane power, “Sultah!”, and launched himself in magical flight across the room and out the window catching the stalking menace full in the chest with his out stretched hands.
With another sharp word, “Tach!”, the wand in the mage’s hand flared to life with a silent, silver burst.
The momentum carried the duo across the small courtyard slamming them against the wall of the stables. Startled whinnies sounded from within as frightened steeds were jostled awake. The blast from the wand was intended to paralyze its victim but had an altogether different effect on the being the mage now faced. Gemini released the man with the glowing eyes allowing him to drop to the ground below. As the elf floated above gazing down at his opponent the man’s head split apart to reveal what appeared to be a large luminescent pear shaped orb. The body of the man quivered and fell away like discarded clothing as the orb began to rise out of the skull. Many long tentacles trailed from the bottom of the orb like those of a jellyfish. Gemini slipped the wand he had used into his belt at the same time beginning the incantation of a spell that would enclose the creature in a sphere of magical force. Then he heard the voices in his head. The sounds of hundreds of voices speaking in unison and driving into his brain to drive away his concentration.
They said, “Do not be afraid. Peace will be yours. Tranquility in the light of joining. Allow us to meld your knowledge with ours to evolve you into a greater being.”
The voices threatened to break the mage’s concentration as he weaved his spell. But he forced his tutelage to the front of his thoughts and continued his casting. The creature was rising through the air toward him now with several tentacles outstretched for him. With a final gesture of his hand as if grasping a small stone the spell was released. A shimmering barrier encased the floating creature and slowly sank to the ground. Gemini too lowered himself and circled the spherical barrier he had summoned as he gazed intently at the creature inside. The voices had grown silent but the creature hovered within following the pacing mage as he circled its prison.

^ ^ ^

Ralac traveled the rooftops beyond the eyes of watchman patrols, above the heads of townsfolk in their beds for the night, sleeping and otherwise. He crept past open windows and leapt with the grace and stealth of a black cat across alleyways from rooftop to rooftop. Soon his pockets would be filled with gold and he could put this city behind him forever. No longer would he pilfer from drunken merchants or steal fruits from the market to feed his growling stomach. No, grander schemes loomed upon the horizon. He would soon have the funds to buy himself the finest tools of the trade. A well balanced blade to be hung upon his belt and vials of toxin tucked carefully in hiding. Then he would be prepared to plunder the tombs of kings and search out the lairs of long forgotten dragons.
He froze upon the peak of the roof he had just leapt upon. Someone was fighting in the yard below the building. He crouched low and slowly made his way to the edge of the roof. Peering over the side he saw below him a man slowly descending to the ground next to the stables of the inn that Ralac now crouched upon. The crumpled form of another man lay a few feet away. Not that a floating man was a common sight but what most grabbed the attention of the young assassin was the hovering jellyfish creature that shone in the night like a pulsing pearl. The man below circled about the creature gazing intently at it as it slowly turned, mirroring his moves. As he watched, crouched at the edge of the slate roof, something cracked beneath him. He shifted his weight to the heels of his feet and leaned back from the edge of the roof as a piece of slate broke away and fell to the ground below.

^ ^ ^

Gemini stroked his chin as he paced and pondered this strange being that sought to feed upon his knowledge. Something then fell to the ground by the porch of the inn distracting him from his pondering. He turned toward the sound and in an instant found himself wrapped in tentacles. It was then he realized his mistake. This creature had superior intelligence and inborn resistance to magic. It had lured him into a false sense of security by allowing the mage to think it was securely imprisoned within the capsule of magical force. His hands were each gripped by powerful tentacles preventing him from casting a spell or reaching his wands.
He knew he was in a struggle for his life but what brought him to this confrontation escaped his memory. Why he was here in this yard and what was this strange creature that wound about him like a python on a rat? The name Nerielle danced fleetingly across his mind but when he thought to place a face to the name it was swept away like a feather drawn on the wind. What city was this he was in and how did he come to be here? He knew he was losing memories but his struggling began to subside as the bliss of unknowing began to lull him toward slumber.
Like a lunar eclipse a shadow dropped from above snuffing the light that shone from the feeding creature. Tentacles released their grip upon the mage causing him to fall to his hands and knees. Tam Geminilanthis, that was his name! He took a deep breath as memory crept back into the forefront of his mind. Wands were in his belt and spell components in the pouches of his bandoleers. Verbal and semantic forms used in castings. A dark haired beauty caressing his chest and laying soft kisses upon his neck. A stranger in the window...
He rolled to his side and came up on unsteady feet preparing to hurl deadly flames at his foe. Tentacles flailed wildly about from under a heavy black cloak that covered the pearlescent body of the creature. A boy with curly black hair clung to the cloak with one arm locked tightly about the covered orb. With his free hand he stabbed repeatedly into the cloak with a long bladed dagger. A single flailing tentacle struck home catching the boy squarely in his left eye. His anguished scream cut the night air like a wounded animal caught by a hunter’s arrow. The dagger protruded straight up from the orb pinning the cloak over it. Ralac kicked out, blindly pushing himself backward. His eye burned like hellfire and warm vitreous fluid flowed between his fingers.
The boy was clear of the creature allowing Gemini to release the only spell he could call to mind at the moment. He clenched his fist then opened it palm up facing the cloak covered creature.
“Fier den Oberah!” Flame burst from his open palm like a stream of burning fluid. Instantly the cloak erupted in a fiery blaze.
A thousand screams echoed in the mage’s mind as the tentacled orb hurled itself toward the stables. It smashed through a window dripping fiery bits of melting cloth in its wake. He looked to the boy who still lay in the dirt moaning. Frightened screams sounded from within the stables and roused voices shouted from the inn. The mage threw open the stable doors and rushed in to free the panicked animals. The stable was quickly filling with smoke from fires burning in the hay and beginning to climb the old wooden walls. Sharp crackles and pops mingled with the shrill cries of horses stricken with fear. There was no sign of the creature save for the flames it had left in its wake and another broken window on the far side of the stable. The mage made his way through the stable releasing the steeds from their holds and allowing them to escape the inferno.
He staggered outside leading his dapple gray. Several men passed buckets along a line from the well on the side of the inn. He went to the boy and knelt before him.
“My name is Gemini and you saved my life, young warrior.” He took hold of the boy’s hands gently moving them to get a better look at the wound.
He gasped in shock at the sight before him. The boy’s left eye was completely gone leaving a gaping hole behind. Blood flowed freely once the pressure was released running in streams about the boy’s cheek to drip from his chin.
“My blade! I need my blade!” He grabbed hold of the mage’s sleeve. “What of the creature? Oh gods it burns!”
“He started this fire! The elf did it!” A lanky tavern hand shouted from the line. “I saw him hurl fire at the stable with my own two eyes, I did!”
The fire was growing larger and threatened to spread to the inn as glowing embers swirled into the night sky. Bells began to ring in the distance alerting the watchmen to trouble in the district. Soon the city would be awake and Gemini knew he would be held responsible for the fire. He swung into his saddle as angry workers turned their attention to him.
“Get down from there, pointy ears, yer goin nowhere!” Now a burly man who looked like a cross between a dwarf and a giant stood between his mare and the yout brandishing a large sledgehammer. “You and the little scamp are gonna pay dearly fer yer crimes here this night!”
Ralac got to his knees behind the large man at the mention of being indicted for his crimes. Gemini took the cue and nudged the mare forward with a slight pressure from his feet upon her flank. The mare struck the burly man in the chest before he could bring the sledgehammer to bear. The burly man stumbled backward, tripping over the kneeling boy and toppled over landing hard on his back with an audible exhalation as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Ralac staggered to his feet still clutching his eye. Gemini reached down grasping him under the arm and hauled him to the back of the mare.
“Gem?” A gentle voice caught the attention of the mage as he prepared to flee. Standing on the porch steps was Nerielle a confused look in her questioning eyes as she glanced from mage to fire and back.
“Truly sorry, milady, but at the moment I am as confused as you!” He shouted over the roar of the now totally engulfed stable and the shouts of men on the fire line trying to contain the blaze. He reached in his cloak and removed a small pouch from an interior pocket. He tossed the pouch to the tall dark haired beauty with the bright green eyes.
“That will cover the damage, fair lady.” He moved forward and kicked the hammer wielding man under the chin. The man promptly dropped face first into the dirt.
“Please see he is compensated also!” He looked back as a contingent of watchmen rounded the corner at a full run with buckets in hand.
“Truly! I’m sorry!” Then he spurred the mare and galloped off into the night.
Upon the steps of the Silver Bite, Nerielle opened the pouch using the light of the fire to see the contents. The pouch was half full with sparkling green emeralds, a king’s ransom in gems. The stable collapsed in upon itself sending a wave of glowing cinders into the dark night. Nerielle slid down the wall clutching her knees to her chest still unsure if she would soon awake next to the graceful elf or if this nightmare had been all too real.
In the months that passed there were stories told by travelers stopping at the now sprawling Silver Bite Lodge of an elven mage with gold streaked hair and a patch eyed young man that traveled the countryside, hunting foul creatures that threatened the land and its people.

^ ^ ^

Stingara was pleased. The All Mother was indeed all knowing and all seeing. The mistress of the night and all that occurred during it found her first new worshiper. Skilled as an assassin but full of good intentions the young man she had found would serve as a perfect example for the worshipers that would follow him. Soon, due to her gentle manipulations, he and his elven companion would run across the trio Anghar had become so enamored with. Then, when they met, she would instill within them all a feeling of kindred. They would fight beside one another as if they were born to do so.
As Anghar had voiced to her his desire to see Darkon rise to the stature of his father, Stingara saw an opportunity. By having Ralac join in Darkon’s adventures the two would hopefully become comrades and as the son of the Black Tiger rose to his fated position, her own favorite would stand beside him. Thus ensuring her own prominence among the ranks of the new Demonslayer people. Never again would she allow her followers to become as they had before.
Even though, throughout time all Demonslayers were as equals and were always brethren, there had ever been an obvious difference in the treatment of Stingara’s followers. Many of her followers were thieves, assassins and dealers in darker trades and it was they who often dirtied their hands on deeds no other would or could. Misunderstood and often forgotten were her heroes, but no longer. She would see that Ralac quashed all that and set a new pecking order. Through time Ralac would gain in skill and wisdom and then Stingara would show him her ways. No mortal could ever resist her, she knew, so the only obstacle to her now was time. Time, of course, was nothing to a goddess.


CHAPTER 18
FATED BY NIGHT


After a week of traveling, Darkon, Galen and Graton had fallen into a quiet routine. The night watch was Darkon always first and Graton ever the last. Graton caught the morning meals and Galen prepared them. Darkon meanwhile tended the steeds and packed away their belongings. All three rode brown mares that were of average size and timid demeanor. The horses had been bought quite cheaply since they were aging and skittish. Sometimes it was only Graton's elven sensibilities that kept them from bolting at every odd occurrence.
The land was at first fairly clear, sparse forest giving ground to flat plains. The plains would never last more than a few miles before another copse of trees broke the horizon. On three different occasions small villages they passed by on their way, not stopping even when small children ran out to greet them. Conversation was often limited to Galen describing his homeland and its politics. He knew that no citizen would ever relish the taking of his father’s throne so there would be an easy route to the palace of Mastalon as long as the folk weren’t held under martial law. They discussed what trails to take so as not to forewarn Satar of their coming and what homes might take them in if they needed a place to hide. The main concern to Galen was how many of his father’s guards and soldiers had been replaced and how they would react to his reappearance.
Darkon, through much of this, was often silent. He still mourned the loss of his love and inside him stewed a grief that threatened to consume his spirit. When he spoke it was usually of his anticipation for the battle to come. Graton often tried to speak to him with comforting words. Reminding him that Sevele was in a better place but Darkon was sure that better place was with him.
So they journeyed, grim and determined and another week neared its finish. Another seven days and the kingdom of Genossia would be reached and two more after that the palace and city of Mastalon. Darkon's manner had not lightened especially when an ugly pair of ogres blocked their path. The creatures were near ten feet in height and their naturally massive build made them resemble huge outcrops of rock. In their hands were massive wooden clubs seemingly carved individually from tree trunks, yet still, the fight didn’t last long.
Darkon charged his steed forward at first sight of the beasts and aimed for the closest one. The ogre chuckled deeply thinking the human had lost control of his horse for no human had ever run toward him. As he closed to within a tree length of it Darkon stood nimbly in his saddle and changed his arm from flesh to steel, startling the ogre into inaction. Allowing the force of his horse’s charge to do the rest he impaled the ogre’s skull with his bladed arm. He nearly fell from his steed from the impact but he clung onto its mane in desperation. The ogre fell dead at its comrade’s feet its blood spraying out with the final beatings of its heart.
Graton summoned his glowing spear and launched it at the second beast while Galen followed Darkon's lead. The prince thanked elven accuracy as the spear hissed past his head and struck the huge creature in the stomach. Distracted by the sudden pain it did not see Galen jump from his saddle and hew at its treelike leg. Magically strong the blade severed the leg just below the knee causing the dumbfounded ogre to topple sideways and then directly onto the spear that impaled it. It died silently as it struck the earth. An elven holler of victory inspired Galen to raise his blade over his head in celebration. He knew that if the sword was not enchanted it would never have cleft through the limb. Galen then looked to Darkon to share a congratulatory cheer but the grim Demonslayer was astride his horse and prepared to continue on their way.
Prince and elf lord exchanged glances as Darkon merely said, “Let’s go, night will arrive soon and I don’t want to be near any carcasses.”
Shrugging to one another the two fell in line behind his steed and continued on.
It was well into evening when the trio finally camped inside a small wooded copse surrounded by tall, grassy fields. A village was nearby but it didn’t even boast an inn so they moved past it. Few words had been said since the earlier battle and the three silently watched the campfire. It was Graton who broke the reverie as he signaled to the others that he had heard something or someone approaching. Neither human had heard anything but they had come to trust elven senses. As they all stood, weapons at the ready, a voice called from beyond the firelight.
“Greetings, Griffon lord! I had not expected to see one of your family so far from the retreats.” Slowly stepping into the firelight was an elf with black hair that had striking golden streaks running through it. He wore a long, heavy leather coat that hung just below his knees. Upon the lapel were strange runes that were also evident upon the cuffs.
“I am Tam Geminilanthis and my companion is Ralac.” With that introduction the elf gestured toward the three and they exchanged confused glances as he said, “Behind you.”
In unison they turned to look behind them and sitting in the very seat Galen had vacated and turning the spit he had just placed over the fire was a one eyed, slender young man garbed in black leather armor. The young man showed no expression as he nodded once. Graton knew then that he had heard the strangers only because they wished it. He smiled then and stepped toward Tam holding his arm out in the elven gesture of greetings. Gemini thrust forth his own arm and they fervently clasped grips.
“Come, sit by our flame! I am Graton and my companions are Prince Galen of Genossia and Darkon Demonslayer.”
The two human warriors looked relieved and nodded their own greetings to the mysterious looking elf. As the two elves sat by the fire Galen sat beside the silent Ralac and began preparing another spit for the second rabbit they would share with these strangers. Darkon merely looked on, staring from Gemini to Ralac and back again as if a question was poised upon his tongue.
Finally he asked, “Have we crossed paths before?”
“Doubt it.” Ralac answered.
Darkon nodded and focused his attention on the conversation between the elves. Gemini spoke of his respect for the Griffon lords and Graton replied, “Your own name is well known among elven mages everywhere. Your accomplishments have set new standards among our people.”
Gemini smiled and replied, “Yes, but my attention now is focused on other types of magic. I have been traveling abroad for many seasons in my search for understanding. I cannot sit idle as our people huddle in the safety of our groves. As, I see, neither can you.”
Graton nodded in solemn agreement and said, “Indeed, you feel as I do but my true purpose away from my home in Ara’moor is to aid my friends.”
Gemini’s eyes lit up at that and looked the two warriors up and down. “Our people’s disdain for human companionship has not swayed you then?”
“No more than it has you, I’m afraid. I have found that not all humans are bad and these two are representative of that.” He answered.
Gemini nodded and said, “I have also discovered this fact. Allow me to tell the tale of my meeting with Ralac and if you would please, return the favor.”
Graton nodded his assent and all present listened closely to the tales told in turn. Soon all five men knew each other much better than before and each learned a new respect for the men sitting next to him. They sat in reflective silence as juicy hunks of rabbit were passed around. Between bites Gemini would ask short questions about aspects of Graton's tale. Most curious to him was the gift of Gaea’s eyes upon Darkon. He yearned to see the Demonslayer’s abilities with his own eyes for it was just those types of rare incarnations he was seeking knowledge about. Once they were done the meal Gemini seemed to relax and even Ralac kept his hand away from his several knives and rested his back against a nearby stump. This seemed to be what Galen was waiting for and he asked if they had seen or heard anything about the coupe in Genossia.
“Ralac and I have come across some guardsmen who must have been employed by this Satar you speak of.” Gemini said.
Ralac reached inside a pouch he wore at his side and revealed a steel chained necklace. “I strangled the mage that accompanied them with this, his own chain. Do you recognize the amulet?”
He then handed the amulet to Galen who seemed to instantly recognize the symbol on its face. A sword clenched in a black fist upon a blood red horizon, throwing it toward Darkon disgustedly Galen cursed the second family and especially Satar.
Ralac continued, “A patrol was harassing a trade caravan and after relieving the merchants of their gold they demanded favors of the women who were with them. Gemini and I followed the patrol to their camp and before they accosted the girls we attacked.”
Darkon looked over the two and asked, “Just the two of you attacked an entire patrol? With a mage no less?”
“No problem.” Ralac answered.
Gemini interrupted, “We abhor the methods used by these vile men and have already decided not to stray far so we can aid good folk when we can.”
Gemini continued, “I hope we are not intruding, Prince Galen, when I ask if we may aid in your quest.”
Galen looked Gemini dead in the eye then and said, “Allies I would appreciate, good elf, but I ask you to consider your decision. We go into a situation where either we succeed or we die. I will ask no one to go to their deaths over what is not their concern.”
Gemini did not answer at first. Instead he looked to Ralac who wore an obvious smirk. The youth had proven himself quite capable and Tam Geminilanthis feared nothing. The two had met their share of obstacles during their recent months together and relished the idea of actually fighting for a larger purpose. Other than mutual defense and the not so occasional rescue they had not completed a purposeful quest. Also, to Ralac this would be a chance to remake his name. He would become hero instead of murderer. Meanwhile Gemini would be able to observe some of the characteristics inherent to Darkon’s gift.
Ralac and Gemini in turn nodded to the other then to Galen and pledged their support. Darkon looked on quietly and wondered if Galen was right in allowing them to join. He wondered who would be next to die because of one of their dangerous quests. Still, he felt relieved for the aid because he knew their chances as a trio to overthrow the throne were slim. Now, with the added skill of an elven mage and deadly assassin he knew their chances had much improved. He then smiled widely, remembering what it was like in his foster home when alliances were made.
Darkon smacked the back of Ralac and loudly exclaimed, “Ho then, let’s drink to the alliance!”
Ralac seemed to hold back an angry retort but realized it was a gesture of friendship by the thick muscled warrior. He decided to return the gesture as best he could. He slapped Darkon in return so quickly across the shoulder the sound seemed to occur out of thin air. Shocked, Darkon looked from his shoulder to Ralac in wonderment. Galen, who shared the look and was standing beside him recovered first and laughed so loudly he frightened a few sleeping birds from their nests. This brought laughter from the elves who were always amused by the human inability to do things quietly. Darkon echoed Galen's booming laughter then, as did Ralac who could not help but join in.

^ ^ ^

Time passed by much more quickly as conversation was expanded due to the added company and seven days went by the wayside. They soon found themselves in the last town before the city, Tarmone`. Galen knew the owners of the local inn called the Barren Wench. The Mironue were a large family. The elder sir and lady had eight children and twenty one grand children and always had some of them at home at the inn.
When they saw Galen enter their door they immediately ushered him into the back rooms. There they pelted the returned prince with question after question. He did reply as best he could but his store of answers was small. The Mironue were a kindly couple but the years had not been kind to them it seemed. Aleema Mironue was nearing sixty winters and she could barely work an entire day in the kitchen due to her aching bones and dizzy spells. Her husband, Dirren, was even worse off. He tended the bar while sitting and still could barely keep up with patron’s orders. They were soon to either sell the inn or hand it down but none of their children seemed overjoyed at the prospect. All of that had been made worse when Satar overthrew the throne. His idea of taxes was to give him everything you had except what you needed to live. Their life savings had been wiped out with one short visit from Satar’s new militia.
Galen was now enraged and would never settle for anything less than the death of Satar. The fact his parents were known to still live gave him some relief though. At least he had a chance to save them even if he wasn’t there for them when the time was most important. He arranged for he and his allies to rest the night in the Barren Wench and all three steeds they had purchased in Havoctown were given to the elder Mironue's for them to sell and perhaps buy back some of their dignity. They would walk the rest of the way to Mastalon. Gemini promised his spells would allow them to enter the city unnoticed under the guise of poor travelers. To be on the safe side he cast his spell on the next day when they left Tarmone`.
The Mironue’s gave them plenty of food and water for their journey explaining they should eat well before battle so they’d have an edge on the malnutritioned idiots Satar installed as his guards. Galen promised them he would return to restore their savings and for aiding the prince as they did they would be made lord and lady Mironue.
Thus they walked an uneventful day through and into the evening. No patrols had been sighted their entire journey which suggested Satar had no great number of soldiers to spare. The next morning they found themselves short one member, for Ralac was gone. By his resting spot sat a short stack of smooth stones that upon seeing, Gemini laughed at.
“He will already be within the city walls and soon well connected among any rebel factions or thieves guilds.” Gemini announced.
“How can you be sure?” Darkon asked.
“It has been our way for some time, ever since I told him wizards could scry upon unwary persons. This way if we were being scryed upon we would still have an unexpected factor we could rely on.” Gemini replied smiling as he prepared himself to cast the spells that would disguise the remaining four men.
As the illusion took shape their skin became dirty and their clothes tattered and bedraggled. Their weapons were gone from their sides and their feet were bare and battered. Darkon was the only one among them who could actually see through the illusion because of the mindflow. To him, a faint outline of a different image covered him and his friends. He often had to ask Gemini if the spell remained during the long walk to Mastalon.
As the city came into view on the darkening horizon Galen explained where the entrance they would take was. No guardsman worth his weight in gold would allow such a misbegotten group to enter the city, so a hopefully still secret entrance would be their access. Darkon surveyed the formations of the buildings he could see. Tall stone towers overlooked a seven foot wall surrounding the squared city. Many buildings spilled over beyond the wall’s protection becoming more squalid and in poor repair this far out from the center of the city. A portcullis was at the northern and southern points on the wall and they lay closed and uninviting. The city was not very large and it was clear from here that they had begun to pile buildings atop one another, some higher even than the palace that rested in the center of Mastalon.
When they reached the first of many copses of trees that were spread here and there upon the plains around the city Galen led them inside. As they looked to the south facing Mastalon they could see from within the copse a shape of a doorway formed by the wild growth.
Galen waved them forward and said, “My people are not without magic, as you will see. Everyone must now join hands or touch one another’s shoulders as I invoke the gateway’s magical command.”
They did so tentatively, finding it hard to believe the often untrusting prince would so readily and easily use such magic. Gemini and Graton both knew the often unpredictable nature of such gateways and kept in mind spells that could possibly save them and their comrades from harm.
Galen spoke the words, “Tiviss sentorum Galen Ect Mastalon!”
Their vision momentarily blurred and the world seemed to move around them. The site, in which they once stood, was suddenly replaced by another. They were suddenly knee deep in the muck and stench of Mastalon’s sewers.
One and all gasped for breath, all except Galen who laughed aloud and said, “Satar cannot keep out the rats, my friends! No king ever could!


CHAPTER 19
MASTALON


Ralac had scaled the old walls of Mastalon during the mid-afternoon, right under the shadow of the southeastern tower and the very noses of the four guards who stood watch at the topmost level. Often looking over the horizon or within the city itself they never once peered down the tower’s length. He entered just below the top level where several guards played dice and drank spirits while they awaited their turn at watch. The assassin easily slipped by the men, clinging to the shadowed corners of the two chambers on the level. The second chamber held three sleeping guards and by the smell of sweat and vomit he knew they were sleeping off a night of drinking. He quickly pieced together some of their armor, finding some of it would actually fit his slender frame.
As he dressed one of the men rolled over and asked him, “Is it my turn at watch?”
Ralac froze then and thinking quickly he deepened his voice and answered, “Not yet, go back to sleep.”
The man did just that, luckily for him since Ralac’s hand had made its way to a very keen bladed dagger prepared to put the man to sleep forever.
Soon the stealthy assassin had made his way through the ranks of Satar’s men down to the ground level of the tower. He was glad he still had several days’ growth on his face because his boyish looks would surely have given him away among these ill kept, ill mannered soldiers. It was obvious to him by the time he reached the city streets that these replacement guards were not organized or disciplined in the least. Ralac found it incredible that these men could overthrow a village let alone this well defensible place. Remembering the medallion he had taken from one of Satar's mages a month ago he placed it around his neck and under his borrowed chest plate. He was sure it would prove useful sometime since he noticed none of the guards or soldiers bore anything like it. When he was well within the city walls he ducked into an alley and discarded the smelly, stolen armor. Now that he was inside he could become more acquainted with the citizens and geography of Mastalon.
The city, though chaotic looking from outside the walls, was actually built in a precise manner. The roads leading toward the palace all rose upwards so any invaders would always be on the less advantageous lower ground. The roads that encircled the city all lay even and flat with each road higher up than the last in a succession of tiers. All the homes and businesses were solid and well kept timber buildings, marking the responsible and industrious nature of Mastalon’s citizens. Ralac marveled at the heights some of the buildings reached, wondering how they didn’t topple under their own weight. The woodworker’s building raised three stories high with several separate guilds working inside. Nearby, the masons building raised only two levels but sprawled outward due to the three warehouses it utilized. Clearly this was not a deprived city. Plenty of work seemed available and it seemed most citizens took advantage of that fact. In fact not a single beggar or vagrant sat in the alleys or dusty roads at all and he was beginning to wonder if any darker trades even existed here.
It wasn’t long though before he realized that not only weren’t there any beggars, there were no children, no errand running wives, nor even strolling elders. In fact the streets were bare except for workers going back and forth from different shops completing their duties. Here was the mystery, Ralac thought. He had hoped to find dissent among the people but now he understood that Satar had hidden the people. He decided to find a tavern and made his way toward where the buildings weren’t so high and trash often littered the streets. Even here he found no signs of conflict and no signs of tragedy. Even the walls, that were visible from the poorer section, were unmarred by siege rams or fire. Obviously Satar had taken the throne not through combat but by somehow subverting the royal family and their loyal followers. Somehow Satar must have replaced the guards with his own mercenAres.
Ralac understood that hirelings and mercenAres were only as good as their pay and their pay didn’t seem to be so good. Rebellion may not be necessary it seemed for if Satar could take the throne through deception, then so could someone else. He’d been taught that any rulers reign could only be as long as a dagger’s blade and today he knew his teachings had been true.
Spotting a sign lettered, “The Roasted Boar”, upon a dark stained wooden building, Ralac stepped inside. Eyes adjusting to the dark bar room he was surprised to see the place bustling with activity. Folk lined the bar and all nine tables were being used. Serving wenches scurried back and forth serving up steaming plates and frothing mugs. Moving to the bar Ralac ordered a mug of ale and surveyed the other patrons. Not a single armored or uniformed man was among them yet plenty of capable and strong men heartily told tales and boasted. Every patron seemed a true citizen of Mastalon and he could see tension and tentativeness in their eyes. Also he soon realized that many of the young to middle-aged men had something in common. It wasn’t easily spotted at first and any casual observers would never have noticed. At the right hand wrist of each man was a small black tattoo of a blade. Ralac believed he’d found Mastalon’s original guards and soldiers but needed proof or an affirmation of some sort.
Unfortunately his affirmation would be harder to come by now that four burly men towered over him and asked, “What are you looking at little man? Who are you?”
Ralac immediately understood how he had gained their attentions and doubted anything he said would convince them he wasn’t one of Satar's ears.
“Good day, sirs.” He then bowed grandly before them and set them off balance. “I am from a far away land seeking work where I can find it. My name is Brolin.” He lied.
The men looked skeptical and loomed threateningly over the short, leather clad, one eyed young man. Their apparent leader was another foot and more taller than Ralac and was covered in corded muscle. His face was bearded and a permanent scowl ruined any chance he may have had at being handsome.
He looked Ralac up and down and asked, “What is it you do, little one eye?”
His comrades chuckled at that and balled their fists at their sides.
Ralac took it all in stride and replied, “I am a hunter of sorts, the kind that hunts down escaped prisoners or lost loved ones or maybe even missing princes.”
All four loyal guardsmen’s jaws nearly hit the floor at that and their leader said, “You would so proudly announce you work for Satar?”
Smiling congenially Ralac answered, “Who is Satar? I was referring to the missing prince Galen!”
The second man, more Ralac's build but still tall, said, “We know whom you speak of but whose side are you on, one eye?”
“I and some others are actually friends of Galen’s and we have come to take down the usurper, Satar!” Ralac answered, loudly enough for several onlookers to hear though. This caused a buzz to erupt in the bar, which soon became a clamoring crowd that demanded answers from the unassuming young man. The gathered guardsmen and there kin gathered around asking questions and demanding answers.
Smiling towards his would be attackers Ralac raised his arms to signal silence in the place, hoping they did so before passing mercenary guardsmen investigated the din. Soon they did quiet down and they listened to his tale. When he was finished four robed figures who had been hanging at the back of the crowd stepped up to him and demanded he allow them to cast their truth magic on him. Surrounded as he was he really had little choice. Pulling they’re hoods down the four mages revealed themselves to him, three of them seemed like normal human men but the fourth was not a man at all. She wore her black hair in one long braid and her face was pleasant but not beautiful. Her one outstanding feature was her slightly pointed ears. He assumed she must have some elven blood in her veins. Together the four royal mages began a spell. They joined hands and closed their eyes while each recited there own specific chant. Ralac could not tell whether they each had a part in the casting or if each was casting they’re own version of the same spell. After having spent some time with Gemini the ever observant assassin had learned much more about spell casters than his cruel teachers had ever taught him.
Eventually one of the males opened his eyes and looked Ralac directly in the eye. “Speak your name and give again your reason for being here in Mastalon.”
Ralac did and the man once again closed his eyes and after three breaths the four seemed to shake out of the spell and smile.
“He speaks the truth.”
The gathered folk, even the two men watching the door and the street outside, cheered. They had been getting truly frustrated with their situation and wondered if any light would ever come from the growing darkness. He asked for the highest ranking members of the guard present and also those who were the most closely tied to the people and their opinions. Not surprisingly the guard who stepped forth was the same one who had almost pummeled Ralac and he was still scowling even through the recent revelations. The closest thing the folk could muster to a popular local was a very heavy, homely woman named Meilenan. Meilenan claimed to know every important person in the city since they all visited her many times during the week. She was the city’s foremost baker and her pleasant demeanor and concern for others made her a friend to everyone. If anyone could muster the people it was she.
So, Ralac and Meilenan and the ever scowling Jander discussed the possible methods of freeing Mastalon and her rulers long after noon. When a hungry group of mercenAres showed up at the inn the crowd acted nonchalant as if they were huddled around a pair of dice players. Luckily the new guard mostly consisted of idiots and drunkards. Quietly Ralac and his two new friends agreed they would continue when Galen returned and established a place from which to command the coming rebellion.
When everyone finished their meals and ales they slowly left the Roasting Boar in ten minute intervals so as not to alarm any wary guards or servants loyal to Satar. They had obviously done this before so Ralac did not interfere. Instead he merely had a quick meal of roasted pig and sweetbread with thick, spicy brown gravy and then left the inn through the backdoor.

^ ^ ^

Galen took the lead as the group moved through the city’s sewers. Darkon kept to the rear and caused the mindflow to move outward before him, hoping to sense any hidden minds they might otherwise pass by. Several hours moved swiftly and night fell before they reached the palace sewers. An iron grate covered the tunnel mouth there and Galen nodded in satisfaction. He knew now that Satar had not been bothering to search the sewers at all, for no grates had been removed from their places. They then turned back the way they had come and soon came to a ladder, slick with animal fat, which led upward to what appeared to be a wooden trap door. Galen left his three companions behind and climbed the stone carved ladder. Carefully the prince made his way upward and after ten minutes time he reached the trap door. He then took the hilt of a dagger and tapped a one, three, four cadence several times before he finally got an answer. The answer came in a two, five cadence and after Galen replied again with his cadence the heavy door was then lifted open.
Torchlight streamed into the black opening and hushed voices exclaiming surprise at the prince’s return filled the sewer tunnel ways. Galen took a massive hand in his and was lifted straight up into a bear hug from his father’s loyal captain of the guard, Bele’. Bele’ was a huge man, not so tall yet as big around as a bull. He wore a wild mane of graying hair and a full black beard. Face red with joy the captain lifted Galen off his feet and shook him with glee. The prince’s face soon turned purple and Bele’s wife had to pry his arms from around Galen’s waist. When he finally caught his breath Galen explained to the boisterous captain how he had heard of his family’s plight and how he and his allies had returned to make things right again in Genossia.
When Galen explained about his allies and Bele’ nodded his understanding the prince motioned for his friends to follow him up the ladder. One by one they entered the large cellar and were introduced to Bele’ and his plump yet lovely wife, Semera. Both were astounded at the sight of elves and were also impressed with the grim warrior with the peculiar scar upon his brow. Each man was greeted by a bear hug from Bele’ and a consoling pat from his apologetic wife. After the introductions were over the big captain led them up a stairway into what Bele’ laughingly called his war room.
“Ever since that poniard Satar took over the true royal guard and the armies have been disbanded. He’s been gathering outlanders and our own dregs to people his armies and most of the guard. Yet there is a two hundred man force he used to take the castle and man it as his personal guard.” Bele’ explained.
“Two hundred men to take an entire palace?” Asked Darkon.
“Through Magic and treachery they had the entire royal family under their custody and lest they be slain they commanded the disbanding of their forces. Several brave men have died trying to reach them but none can get past Satar’s servants. I have spoken on one occasion with the traitor mage, Par-Than, and he said all the men were slain by the demons that guard the royal family.”
Huffing heavily from the breathless explanation the captain wiped his sweaty brow with a stained sleeve and took a mighty draw from the great tankard of mead his wife handed to him. Semera then handed each of the guests a simple iron flask with the king’s sigil upon them, full of pleasant ale. Darkon ignored his own flask as he felt a familiar eagerness travel throughout his spine and outward through every limb. The prospect of battling demons now held a brighter aspect for the Demonslayer and Darkon looked forward to raising the creatures’ heads on pikes in the final victory.
That, at least, was what Darkon's instincts screamed to him. He himself had never had the opportunity to raise a demon head as a trophy but he knew it had been a ritual observed by the warriors of his people. Shrunken demon heads even adorned priestly ceremonial headdresses or were used by mages to aid in spell casting. If there were demons involved here Darkon would not rest until they were slain or banished. He could not rest until he avenged his Sevele, and that by the gods could take a lot of demon killing.
An hour passed and then another as Bele’ and Galen discussed the specifics of the enemy occupation. Darkon tried to pay attention to all the details but sleep still overtook him. Galen noticed this but allowed the Demonslayer his rest for throughout their journey to Mastalon he hadn’t truly slept well at all. Darkon's grief, as well as Galen's, had become a burden, a burden that wore Darkon down more than any journey could. Galen however utilized the grief he felt at the loss of his friends Sevele and Rena to feed his burning rage and need for vengeance. Another hour passed.
A loud knock at the captain’s door awoke Darkon and with a start he leapt to his feet, expecting an attacking foe. Graton was near him and motioned for him to keep quiet and pointed towards the steps that would lead them back to the cellar and Mastalon’s sewers. Darkon hesitated only for a moment and headed down the stairs when another knock shook the shelving’s that hung by Bele’s front door. Upon which rested several awards for achievement and longevity given to Bele’ from the King and other high ranking nobles within Mastalon.
Everyone then heard Bele’ yell angrily, “I’m coming gods take you, I’m coming.”
They hurried down through the trap door as they heard Bele’ open his door and ask, “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Bele’, we have been informed you harbor dangerous fugitives, let us in or we’ll let ourselves in!” A harsh voice demanded.
They did not hear the big captain’s reply but did hear the stomping of boots upon the hardwood floor as the trap door closed and locked from the sewer tunnel side. For a short while they listened, Galen most intently, as the soldiers tore the kind hearted captain’s home apart. They heard Semera crying and Bele’ complaining but it was obvious the couple would not be harmed. Assured of their safety Galen led them all away from the area through twisting, turning tunnels that had no beginning and no end. Here and there a grate to the street would appear where guards stood watch, obviously on the lookout for anyone who might come out of the sewers. The four men knew though they had little to fear from Satar’s new regiment, for most of the guards they had seen seemed barely able to wield their borrowed swords.
Gemini noticed first what appeared to be a duel between two guards who must surely be in a severe drunken state. The elven mage chuckled though as he realized the two men were not drunk and only were trying to practice their swordsmanship, if it could have been called that. They were barely capable of lifting the swords let alone swing them to effect.
Gemini shook his head solemnly as Galen nodded. He then made a half circle with his ring finger and whispered, “Hisss’ Ath!”
Instantly the swords the guards wrestled with burst into flames, searing the tender grips of their bearers. The men screamed in utter terror and abandoned their weapons and their posts, screaming pledges to nameless gods if their lives should be spared. Galen enjoyed the spectacle and appreciated Gemini’s timing for this was a good place to exit the underworld and enter the city above. It was late but not yet midnight and only a handful of torches lit the streets.
Gemini cast an uncomplicated illusion that changed the appearance of himself and Graton while the Griffon lord merely enspelled the garb of Darkon and Galen. The elves looked like two swarthy desert nomads swathed in pilafs that enwrapped every inch of their bodies until they were as black as night in the darkness.
Galen suddenly looked like what the guards of Mastalon were meant to look like. Mastalon’s pride was in its armies and city forces. For centuries they held off all sorts of foes from eastern men riding war elephants and swift desert steeds to swarming hordes of goblins. The replacements were mockeries of the men who truly served Genossia.
Darkon on the other hand did not quite seem believable but did bring an amused chuckle from the prince that was soon followed by snickering, elven finger pointing. Darkon's untamable mane was severely hindering his ability to hide his foreign nature and his body was in very much better physical condition than nearly all of the hired guard. He had no fear though, for Bele’ had mentioned that there were plenty of outlanders about so he would be passable as a new recruit.
After a time Darkon spoke quietly to Galen. “No beggars, no thieves, not even homeless dogs searching for scraps. Friend Galen, has it always been so in Mastalon?”
Galen shook his head regretfully and answered, “No, but we know most of the latter two are now Satar's men. Even still you are right, it is entirely too quiet on these streets.”
As if on cue a whistle from one of the stalking elves signaled someone was near. The disguised warriors took a relaxed stance, one that would suggest they were merely two guards on watch. They heard the approaching footsteps of many folk coming nearer and exchanged nervous glances. After not seeing anything at all they were surprised that they were at a place where something out of the ordinary was going on. It seemed entirely too convenient. They knew it wasn’t guards for Graton would have signaled that, thus Galen warily kept his borrowed, flame stained sword in hand. Darkon could not see Graton or their newest ally, Gemini, at all in the shadowed alleyways they stood in but he sensed that they were near with ready spells on their tongues. Then, just before the approaching group of strangers rounded the street corner and would see the two would be guards standing in the mouth of an alleyway Darkon reached out with the mindflow and read the stray thoughts he could comprehend.
Grasping Galen's wrist Darkon whispered, “Hold!”
Near a dozen hardy men garbed in dark attire and bearing watchmen’s weapons rounded the corner and halted suddenly at the sight of the two misposted guards.
A scowling man, who was apparently the leader, barked orders, “Grab them, kill them if they resist!”
Nine strong men rushed forth weapons ready and smiles upon their faces for they were eager to take revenge on Satar’s men.
“Surrender or die where you stand!” Growled the leader as he leveled a crossbow at Galen who at the moment looked nothing like a prince returned home.
Galen smiled as he dropped the sword to the ground and said, “Jander, since when have you been so grouchy?”
The warrior was taken aback for a moment but recovered quickly. “Who are you?”
Gemini realized the situation and promptly dropped the illusion around the two warriors. Galen stood revealed.
“My prince!” Jander’s scowl finally left him as he nearly went to his knees in wonderment. The other men around him at once stood at attention and saluted their returned prince.
Galen saluted the men in return and immediately dispensed with the unnecessary pleasantries. “I am sorry for taking so long, loyal warriors. Before I am discovered standing here though we must find a place I and my companions can rest and plan my parent’s rescue.”
Jander stood straight and said, “We met your friend Ralac, my prince, and he told us much already. Much of the populace has already secretly been prepared for your return. Meilenan and I share the opinion that you would be best served to stay near the main sewer conduit where legends say mages cannot peer.”
Galen beamed with pride. “My people are still as wise and strong as when I left them! We will do as you suggest. As soon as you can you must send us contacts and supplies, this must all be done very carefully, my friend.”
Jander only nodded and immediately signaled his men to follow him and they all quickly trotted off and disappeared around the corner of a nearby building.
As Darkon turned a plaintive look Galen’s way the prince shook his head apologetically and said, “Sorry, but back to the sewers we go.”


CHAPTER 20
TRAITORS AND SPIES


Satar was mesmerized by the dancing women the ambassadors from Persia had brought for him. The women were like none he had ever seen before. They were so curvaceous and full figured, unlike the lithe, slender women of his own land. They had been gifts in return for favorable taxes on Persian trade caravans and less intense trade restrictions on their merchandise. Most importantly though, each woman wore a protective amulet around their necks that kept them from being completely horrified by the fear augmented presence of Satar.
It was true Satar was making allies of all Genossia’s old enemies and they were taking full advantage of his unstable state of mind. He was a man obsessed. Rarely ever sleeping he constantly imbibed potions and concoctions that would sustain him without need for a normal man’s necessities. Also, unseen by any of the oiled women who amused him was a large shadow that stood behind his stolen throne. Only visible to him this was the demon that had joined him in his obsession.
Satar had made a pledge not so long ago to never stop his vigil until Galen of Mastalon was in his dungeons. The demon who had heard his pledge came to him and pledged its aid, asking only that Galen's allies be left to its mercy. He had no problem with that. He was aware now that Galen was near. Par-Than, the royal mage, notified him of that fact just that very morning. Par-Than had been a useful pet so far. The traitorous mage had been planted inside the palace of Mastalon many years ago and served both the king and Satar loyally until now. Now that only he ruled, Par-Than had much more time for his own affairs and that suited Satar the mad just fine as long as the wizard did as he asked.
After he was done here he would sleep for a short period so as to be fresh and alert for the capture and torture of the long missing prince. Then, once finished breaking the fool Galen would watch as his parents were slain before his eyes and his sweet sister, Brie’shanna, would be violated in every way. A growl erupted behind him, it was one of agreement, and startled him from his vile thoughts. Luckily only he could hear the demon, or the sweet smelling girls Satar salivated over would have most likely perished from the fright. Still, he spoke aloud to the creature with no regard for the stares his outbursts drew.
“I’ve told you never to intrude upon my thoughts!” He said.
The demon blankly stared back at him and said, “I was merely trying to speak to you but you were already talking to yourself. I must say your mind could be mistaken for a demon’s.”
Satar cared little for that comparison but said nothing as he turned to dismiss the fluidly dancing young women. They bowed repeatedly as they backed out of the exit. At the doorway stood four guards, personal protectors of Satar. Beside them four more guards waited to escort the two women to their chambers. The royal guards pulled the oaken doors closed, leaving their mad king to argue with his demons.
The ceiling rose upward into a pyramid with hanging sconces that held burning black candles. The room was well lit but still a deep shadow lay at Satar’s back. The jeweled throne he sat upon was gilded in platinum and gold and dressed with felt cushion of red stuffed with swanmay feathers. He rested his feet upon a stout footstool of human build. A quivering man was tied around the ankles and wrists, gagged, and being used ‘quite nicely thank you’ as a footstool. Satar had days ago forgotten what the man had done to deserve such treatment but wasn’t going to stop using him for he would then be without a footstool! That of course wouldn’t be fitting for a king. Somehow he ignored the reek of piss and shit wafting from the footstool.
As the echoes of Satar’s shouts finally subsided again the demon spoke through his thoughts. “I still abhor you using amulets to prevent your aura from affecting the servants. An assassin could easily acquire one and end your life.”
Satar laughed loudly, “Kill me? I cannot be stopped, demon, nothing can kill me!”
The demon laughed back, “Surely you are as mad as your servant’s say you are Satar!”
This time Satar lost his patience and raised his voice in anger as he had done so many times before and said, “Know this! I, son of Satarnafoon, destroyer of lives, King of Genossia, have little to fear from death!”
Quiet now the demon kept closed the mental avenues of which only he had control. It knew it would, if given the time, find out Satar’s secret and why he feared death no more than a passing pittance but pressing the issue had already gotten him nowhere. Without explanation Satar pressed a large green sapphire at the right arm of the throne, a sapphire devised to summon the royal wizard, Par-Than. This time though, Par-Than did not appear. Usually only a moment or three would pass but never longer. Then, instead of appearing in person, Par-Than opened a scrying device of some sort and made his face appear before the mad king.
His gaunt face was accented by a sharp beard that streamlined and tapered to a point upon which was entangled a large vulture talon.
Par-Than spoke in a sibilant hiss that made most men shiver subconsciously, “My king, you have summoned me at a most inopportune time.”
Before he could continue Satar snapped in rage at the wizard, “How dare you not come here personally! I should have you publicly flogged!”
Par-Than bowed his head and replied, “Of course, my lord, but if you would allow me to explain...”
Satar’s demeanor instantly changed and he quickly grunted an assent to the mage.
“I have been attempting to precisely locate Prince Galen and have come to a final conclusion.”
The mad king waved for him to continue.
“He has made a hideout, if you will, from a place I cannot scry into, the sewers of Mastalon.”
Satar looked about to protest the statement as the mage continued, “Long dead wizards of ancient arcane knowledge made the sewers impervious to the eyes of other mages. It was during a rebellion when the royal family was forced to defend themselves from the tunnels beneath the city. Still, it will please my king to know that I have spied strangers to our city moving in and out of the sewers and I have overheard conversations pointing to the return of the prince.”
Satar did not speak for a few moments, contemplating his next move. He could send soldiers into the tunnels and flush the prince and his allies out or he could send demons and mindless monsters to do the job. He felt the demon’s thoughts attempting to reach his own but this time rebuked its attempts with a wall of stubborn pride. He knew he could not trust soldiers or creatures to do what he’d been made for. He wanted all the pleasure of final victory for himself and still needed the prince alive.
“Par-Than, you have done well as always.” The mage smiled his thanks and bowed his head in deference. “Know you then that in six hours I will begin the capture of the prince and I will be needing your advice at my side.”
The mage appeared confused at first but bowed again and replied, “Of course, my king.”
Then the hovering image disappeared leaving Satar with his demon.
Satar left the royal hall for his chambers not caring that the demon was right behind him.
“I must sleep for now but when I awake I will by fire and smoke flush the rats from my sewers.”
He was given no reply as the demon took watch over his bedside.

^ ^ ^

Ralac was sure now why Satar was considered mad. Disguised as a harem guardsman he could hear the man arguing with himself as he walked the Persian women to their chambers. After he took his post outside their doors his shift soon ended and he was free to find Gemini and the others.
Only an hour passed before the trail of information led Ralac to the prince’s hideout in the sewers. Scores of onetime soldiers roamed in and out of the tunnels, all armed, but most unarmored. They told him of how the prince was nearly killed as a traitor to the throne before the men who found him realized it was the lost heir.
When he reached the prince he found him encamped within a main conduit where several small sewers joined. Maps of the tunnels and the palace lay strewn over a makeshift table while incense burned away the worst of the stench. Ralac related all he had seen and heard to Galen and emphasized that the man never seemed to eat or sleep. This was the first time that he had spoken to any of his friends since he scaled the wall the first day and they were happy to see he had not been captured. Gemini had reassured them all during the past week that Ralac would be just fine.
When Ralac stepped next to Darkon the warrior clasped his arm and asked, “Any sign of demons?”
The assassin answered, “Only those in his head.”
Ralac was shocked at the pure disappointment on Darkon's face but said nothing of it.
With Galen sat Graton, Gemini, Darkon and Bele’. The men sat in council discussing the best method to liberate the royal family and then reclaim the throne.
“We cannot storm the palace, nor can we get Satar to leave it. The only way is to go in ourselves and deal with him and his servants our way.” Graton said.
“Of course I agree but Satar must be expecting such a thing.” The prince replied.
A yelp of pain erupted from blustering Bele’ and he ripped a charm from his sleeve.
He spat curses on Par-Than thrice over before explaining, “The mage cannot peer into these sewers. When he wishes to speak with me this charm heats up, damn wizard!”
Gemini’s eyebrow rose a bit at the curse but said nothing. Bele’ had explained two days ago that Par-Than contacted him and expressed his desire to assist any actions against Satar. Of course, neither Galen nor the others loyal to his family believed a single word uttered by the mage, but he enjoyed the little games of misinformation and misdirection he could now play with the traitorous wizard.
Big Bele’ stood and promised his immediate return as he exited the conduit made war room.
Ralac, who had not met Bele’ before asked, “Can he be trusted? Shall I follow him?”
Galen smiled and said, “Of course he can but if you would feel better, do so, by all means.”
Galen understood magic and knew Bele’ could be entranced by Par-Than to spy for Satar so he was glad again for the stealthy assassin’s presence.
Creeping behind the heavy, older man, Ralac kept a twist or turn of the tunnels between them at all times. When Bele’ exited the sewers he headed straight for a basin where water was pumped from an underground source.
Kneeling at its edge he could be heard to not so quietly call to Par-Than. “Par-Than! Heed my call wizard.”
Four times he repeated those words before stopping. Creeping closer, sticking to the building’s shadows and awning posts, Ralac heard the mage’s voice enough to understand. It was nearing twilight and very few folk moved through the streets so he took a casual stance and acted as if he were removing dung from his boots.
A hissing male voice said, “What news have you Bele’? Have the fools decided on a plan yet?”
“No. They expect a trap would await them if they enter the palace so they now ponder on a way to draw the king out.” Bele’ answered.
“Truly a pity no true trap does await them but no matter. In four hours the king will be flushing the scum from the sewers so just see that you keep them in fear of moving.”
Bele’ nodded in understanding and asked, “Then what?”
“Then, my dear imposter, you may take your leave of this realm and your reward of magic with you and I bid you do so in haste for my mad king has been known to change his mind.”
The imposter nodded again and stood up. Spitting once into the basin he adjusted his belt and turned the direction he’d arrived from. He did not notice the man cleaning his boots as he passed by and reentered the sewers, nor did he hear that man following him. Once darkness enwrapped both men Ralac drew his slim dagger and quickened his pace. Unsure what the nature of the imposter was he decided to wait to strike until they reached Galen’s conduit.
As Bele’ stepped into the torch lit main conduit he immediately began to explain how Par-Than told him that in four hours there would be a good chance to enter the palace, so they should probably rest up while they still could. This was all the confirmation Ralac needed and without hesitation he leapt upon the big man’s back and slit his fat throat from ear to ear. The Bele’ without screamed, the Bele’ within wept with relief.
“Imposter!” Ralac yelled as the man still struggled beneath him.
Galen had known Bele’ since birth and was aghast at Ralac’s gory deed and Darkon moved forward as his arm became sharp and strong. The struggling form of Bele’ seemed not to weaken or be deterred by what should have been a killing attack and that alone was proof enough for Darkon. The imposter bellowed out in pain and fury in a voice that was clearly inhuman. As Ralac clung to the convulsing back and plunged his dagger into the head and neck of the imposter Darkon ran forward and just as his swing was coming around, he slid to his knees. The sword arm cleaved entirely through both legs of the imposter and made him fall in a heap. Darkon rolled backward and Ralac launched himself to the side as Gemini closed to the now shuddering form. Galen could only watch, stunned, as a loud ripping sound erupted from the body and the true form of the creature suddenly sprung its way out of the quivering mass that was once a good and loyal man. Thanks to the necromantic abilities of Par-Than the demon had been assured a continued existence if its human vessel was slain, but only if the vessel was indeed slain. Drawing upon the last vestiges of life energy within the now lifeless husk the demon was freed of its servitude and provided with its own complete, demonic form. Coated in slime the reptilian form evoked a familiar feeling from inside Darkon's chest.
As the creature stood tall in its true form Graton attacked by launching his magical spear from where he crouched in readiness. The spear hit squarely between the demon’s shoulder blades and shuddered there as the thing roared, the crystal spearhead jutting from its sternum. Gemini followed the attack with a spell. No words were voiced, only a clawing movement with one hand while the other tossed some kind of seeds forth. Dozens of green needles appeared from his clawing hand and flew unerringly into the demon’s face. They struck him in waves and the gushing gore the needles created swiftly muffled its roars.
The creature stilled for a moment and looked as if it were prepared to launch itself with to attack but one final swing from Darkon's blade separated its head from its shoulders. A geyser of energy poured from the hole that was left and the thing’s image could be seen there as the now lifeless body fell to the ground and began to collapse and shrivel inward upon itself. Demon or no the beast was only one against the collective might of all of Galen’s comrades. Soon all that remained was the bronze charm that was pinned to Bele’s sleeve. The discolored slime that once was a demon was swept away with the refuse of the sewer. Ralac used his gore covered dagger and maneuvered the pin away from the dissolved matter and into the shallower water of the sewers.
“This may be useful.” He said as he handed it now mostly free of gore to his elven friend.
Galen stood over the unrecognizable remains of his dear friend, still too shocked to react and said, “You will be avenged, old friend.”
Ralac moved to his side then and told him all he had heard in the exchange between the imposter and Par-Than. This angered Galen even more for he had known since his youth that Par-Than was an evil traitor but could never prove it. Now, too late, he had that proof and he vowed the wizard would pay as dearly as Satar.
Galen knew Satar’s plans now though and he knew to clear all his followers from the sewers before the attack occurred. Meanwhile he would utilize the four hours he had left to infiltrate the palace and kill Satar. Four hours should be all he needed for he knew every secret of the palace and where every sewer would take him underneath it.
Galen looked to his gore stained friends and announced, “Every bit of skill and knowledge you all possess has taken us much closer to saving Genossia than I ever could have alone. For that you have my gratitude. Now I must take this battle to the usurper and his servants. We know of Par-Than and scores of fairly skilled soldiers but I am sure now he must have demonic aid as well. I can take us to the inner halls of the palace through the underground passages but once we are there we may very well have to battle our way to Satar. Let us prepare ourselves to strike hard and fast so that no more innocent lives are wasted. What say you?”
His words brought cheers of approval. Galen hoped his father would be proud. A chorus of hails and calls for vengeance echoed throughout the sewers and even into the empty streets beyond as the nearby guardsmen heard his words and repeated them to their fellows beyond earshot. Darkon, still invigorated by the impromptu encounter with a demon, led a chant that the gathered men followed with fervor, a chant that called for justice. Galen stood with his sword raised high in the center of the growing crowd and tears trailed down his tanned cheeks. He remembered how his father had inspired his warriors and knew the king would be proud. He knew as well that the pure soul of Rena would not be able to rest until he had slain Satar.


CHAPTER 21
THIS, MY HOME


Merleptus watched from his sinking tower as Galen and his friends cut a swathe of quick and precise destruction through the ranks of what was supposed to be Satar’s elite soldiers. It was true the men had taken the force by surprise, especially since Satar had told them to prepare to invade the sewers against Galen. He’d been keeping his eye on the group ever since he supplied them with the gold they needed. His gaze reached even into the sewers of Mastalon where most mages could not penetrate the powerful glyphs and wards inscribed long ago by the master arcanist's of Mastalon.
Of course, Merleptus was not an average mage and his powers outstripped nearly every human wizard of his day. Due to his age and that of his long dead master’s spell library he had access to spells the builders of the sewer system had not prepared for. Thus when he scryed into a place considered unreachable by others he was ever persistent in his attempts.
He shifted his gaze to the sleeping form of Satar and the strange but familiar shadow that hovered over him protectively. Merleptus felt sure he had seen that mysterious being before but could not recall from where. He knew this being that clung to Satar more by the way he felt than what he saw though. The creature peered intently toward the doorway of the royal bedchamber as if it knew what was coming. Indeed, Galen, Darkon and the rest were closing ever faster on this very room. It was strange though, how the thing merely waited and did not bother to awaken Satar. Was it so confident in its abilities? Perhaps it did not wish to alert Satar at all.
Whatever its plans were Merleptus was not worried, for he was confident of the Demonslayer that was coming with a vengeance beside the other valiant heroes. That Demonslayer had one thought on his mind, the mage knew, and that was slaying any demon before any of his comrades were caught up in the debilitating aura of fear that surrounded them. Though he could not read minds he did not need to. Any man who knew what that young man had been through would realize he was caught up in a whirlwind of emotions and would not rest until he had released all of the rage and grief that ached within him. This mage, for one, was quite happy he wasn’t going to be on the receiving end of those emotions. Merleptus even hoped that perhaps after a time the slayer would work with him again. A Demonslayer is a most precious commodity when one deals so often with demon kind.
Besides the swinging blades of the three men he had already met, the mage was also quite impressed with the two new members of the party. While the three warriors attracted most of the soldiers’ attentions the assassin darted from corner to corner and shadow to shadow slaying by stealth where force would have been too dangerous or time consuming. Also, when a large force awaited the party in halls and chambers and normal methods were not an option then the elven mage would weave intricate spells with speed and confidence. Merleptus had always been envious of elven mages and their seemingly innate ability to manipulate the arcane.
Shielding his comrades from missile fire at one point, the elven mage created an invisible shield of swirling air that sent the enemy arrows harmlessly away. As the offending archers prepared to fire again giving several other soldiers cover to advance, Gemini hissed. With a powerful motion of his hands directed at the men upon the stairs before them, a gusting wind wall blasted upward through the tight corridor and stairs sending the soldiers hurtling backward head over heels into the archers. As quickly as it had been made the wind disappeared, followed by a storm of blade swinging that cleaved through the stunned soldiers with merciless intent. Leaving nothing to chance the three warriors of the group worked like separate parts of a single efficient unit, each focused on the goal at hand. Galen’s magical blade cleaved through armor like butter while Graton’s spear punched into and withdrew from the enemy with lightning speed. Darkon’s advantage was in his strength and the fact that no matter the conditions he never allowed rage to blind his instincts. With cool calm and discipline he fended away deadly swords and hacked into the mercenAres that didn’t retreat before him.
For a moment Merleptus wondered where that annoying imp had gotten to but he realized the creature was more irritation than he needed. Let the thing avoid death on earth for an eternity for all he cared. The images upon the scrying pool were his concern now and it was turning out to be quite a show so far. The scheming wizard had hoped he would have an opportunity to assist the heroes and thus regain their favor but they seemed quite capable of handling things so far. Still, they hadn’t crossed either Par-Than or the shadowy demon at Satar’s bedside yet so there still might be a chance. At least Merleptus hoped so.
^ ^ ^

Lunging right and stabbing left, Galen caught another soldier in the belly, spilling the man’s innards onto his feet. The soldier to his left angrily bellowed as he raised his heavy blade over his head and charged. Galen feinted a parry then ducked his shoulder and surged forward catching the rage blinded man by surprise and flipping him over onto his head and shoulders. The snap of a breaking neck was the effect incurred and another man was dead by his hand. It was his skill at using any and all objects to his advantage that had saved him many times before, especially for the two years he’d traveled alone. Looking around, he saw Darkon and Graton standing in the middle of nearly a dozen men dead and dying. Huffing and puffing they each bore some superficial wounds but they didn’t seem to notice. They were consumed by an energy inducing spell Gemini had cast upon them. Their reflexes were heightened, as were their strength and intuition. They could sense an attacker coming from behind or unseen and had enough added agility to avoid a killing blow. The effects were running longer than expected and now the breathless after effects were hitting them harder for it. They decided then to wait for Ralac and Gemini to join them. The two had gone ahead to scout the servant’s quarters and clear any possible dangers to the party before they were committed deep within the palace and possibly fighting Satar. Once, the three warriors had heard an explosion come from that direction but nothing since then had been seen or heard. Galen immediately wanted to run after their friends and help them but Graton assured him that the explosion had surely come from the spells of Tam Geminilanthis.
As the trio of blood spattered warriors rested they soon realized that things had grown very quiet. No longer did any guards move through the hallways shadowing their every move and the silence was becoming almost haunting. Graton did not notice for he mourned the unburied dead at his feet. Among his people the unburied were in danger of becoming lost. If the soul wandered too far from its body it was in danger of not being present when the speakers for the dead came for them. The elf quietly began to sing the elven song of mourning and methodically moved about the great hall and shut the eyes of the dead men. Elves believed by singing to the unburied dead they would entice the souls to remain long enough for their speakers to arrive. The truth of these beliefs had never truly been known for sure but Graton had witnessed as a speaker came for the waiting soul of Sevele. He now not only relied upon his strong faith in elven religious practices, he had witnessed something no one on this plane was likely to see. Bearing witness to a speaker of Silvanus had stoked a fire within allowing him to fully believe greater things abounded after passing from this plane of existence.
Galen paid little heed to the elf’s song. The men they had slain were wretches, scum and even cowardly murderers who would never have been allowed within Mastalon’s walls by King Garrold, Galen’s father. As far as he was concerned it did not truly matter what became of their bodies because he suspected Pluto would find their souls easily enough.
Darkon was mesmerized by the enchanting lullaby of death and he used it to focus his thoughts and strengthen his resolve. As he focused he found within himself a center of being he had only glimpsed in the past, a light that hovered within him that was the focus of his total self. He knew it could only be found if he allowed himself the peace of mind, the steadiness of unfeeling. He had considered exploring this state of being before but too many random untamed thoughts and emotions clouded his inner self. It seemed strange to him that now, after so much fighting, he could find his center so easily. The elven death dirge gave him something soothing to focus upon and the cold, methodical presence of thought he enwrapped himself in during battle allowed him the clear mind.
Thus it was that two were distracted while only Galen watched the surroundings and listened for approaching enemies. Galen felt no calmness at all for he was a follower of Ares, god of war and fury, schooled by warrior teachers that taught him to utilize the rush he felt when the fury of battle consumed him. His sword swung with the fury of his teachings and his body still trembled from the adrenaline coursing through his muscles in anticipation for the battle yet to come. With every victory the prince thanked Bele’ for his lessons and his willingness to leave his holding nearer to his home within the growing nation of Rome. So, ears sharp and eyes wide, he was first to notice the near soundless approach of a very ugly creature.
Walking on six legs was a violet scaled, giant, monitor lizard. Its tongue tasting the air it ignored the lifeless meat and went straight for the still living. Its eyes gleamed yellow and its claws, as long as short swords, scraped the stone floor as its pace quickened. Galen was shocked at first sight of the reptile but recovered in time to voice first a question then a warning.
“Darkon, remember when that old man said there was no such thing as dragons?” Realizing the creature was coming too swiftly for him to wait for an answer he yelled, “Beware!”, and raised his blade.
Graton looked up and Darkon shook himself from his meditative trance as Galen met the beast halfway. It hissed in anticipation and brought its tail around to bear. The prince swung at the whipping member and just barely sliced through the rock-like hide of the creature. It didn’t even notice and snapped in at the human’s legs. The thing was as long as a horse and wagon and stood as high as Galen was tall. It was going to take more than one small sword to stop this behemoth.
Graton emitted an ear piercing war cry, hoping to distract the lizard and Darkon followed him as he charged forward. The creature was not shaken in the least, after all these three men were only a big mouthful each. Graton entered the melee as he had many others before and hurled his spear. This time though, his strength wasn’t enough to bury it deep in the reptilian hide. The spear stuck for a moment but fell as the beast thrashed about. Seeing this, Darkon halted his charge. This was no demon and he knew his own strength would not likely be enough to mortally wound it. Galen realized this as well and stepped out of reach of its slobbering maw. As the Griffon lord resummoned the spear of Bailick by placing his closed fists together and pulling them apart the thing charged with remarkable speed. The three brave men could only exchange quick glances and run in different directions in hopes to confuse it but it was not unintelligent. It knew the elf had stung it with the long stick so intended to rend him lifeless first. Graton was swift and graceful like all of his elven brethren but there was little room to run and the monstrous lizard soon had him cornered. Mercenary corpses and furniture alike were crushed and broken beneath the giant creature’s tread. Fully believing it had the elf cornered it tasted the air in hunger before it lunged in a blow that should have ended the elf’s life. Still, it proved a mistake to have hesitated even for that small moment for a spear wielding elf was never a defenseless creature.
Without a sound or warning Graton lunged forward and plunged the spear straight up the things left nostril. The pain turned it into a thrashing hill of rage and it was all the elf could do to avoid being crushed and get out of the way. The protruding haft of the spear whipped back and forth and nearly took Graton’s head off. As he ducked and rolled to the side he was met by Darkon and Galen who had been preparing to leap on the lizard’s back as it appeared that the thing was about to eat the Griffon lord. The humans loudly congratulated him for his skill but he was merely satisfied with being alive. They ran to a doorway that was too small for the creature to pass through and Graton resummoned his spear. Suddenly the violet monster stopped its frantic twisting and flailing and lashing to begin licking at its bleeding nostril. Still confused from the pain it scraped two of its six claws across its snout hoping to eliminate the pain that flared there. The three sweat soaked men each held their breath, hoping the monstrous thing would leave. Soon enough though, it recovered its wits, sensed its quarry’s location, and charged madly. Too enraged to realize that it was too large to follow them into the smaller hallway it slammed hard against the stone frame and wall. Blinded by its hunger and frustration it had struck hard and its head lodged into the opening and it was momentarily stunned. This was most likely the best chance the frightened men would have to make more than just superficial wounds upon it. They hacked again and again at the thing’s face, throat, and eyes, opening considerable gashes upon its pebble textured scales. Its desperation showed as it, rather than simply pulling back, lunged at the offending creatures without effect. Finally it did dislodge itself and retreated blindly to where it came from down a large hall. Twice it stopped in its tracks and scratched madly at its wounds and peered menacingly back where its deadly prey remained hidden. Its retreat eventually brought screams from somewhere down the hall and those screams were soon choked off and became the sound of the slurping and rending of flesh. It seemed the beast found its keepers as palatable as any other being.
A voice, loud and seemingly cheerful suddenly exclaimed, “Incredible! I’ve never seen such a creature in all my journeys!”
Another voice replied, “I’ve seen it a hundred times in my nightmares and it’s still not as frightening as the prospect of hearing another of your stories about rare and exotic creatures.”
Calmly strutting into the blood strewn hall, Ralac and Gemini matter of factly joked to one another as Darkon waved to them.
“Well met, friends, are you well?” Darkon spoke as he moved to meet the pair.
As the two returning comrades closed within speaking distance, Ralac answered light heartedly, “Well, there are apparently no servants who could bear standing in Satar’s presence so they were replaced by…I’m sorry! What did you call them, Tam?”
“Bealrotti!” Tam Geminilanthis cheerily replied.
“Yes, Bealrotti. They were a nasty bit of snarling and stink but their brains must have leaked out long ago for we had little problem finishing them.” Replied the young assassin with a wink of his remaining eye. There were only two scratches on Ralac and not a mark on Gemini, which convinced Darkon without even using the flow that the elf had probably done the most damage to the Bealrotti. Did he just say Bealrotti? Ralac’s wide smile turned to a look of confusion when he realized Graton, Galen and Darkon were already conversing among themselves, rather heatedly, about the Bealrotti.
“I don’t believe it!” Graton exclaimed.
“Believe it,” Darkon said, “Now we know that treacherous mage had something planned for us from the start.”
“How could we allow ourselves to be tricked like that?” Galen snarled.
Graton heard his friends but still would not fall into their line of thought. “Perhaps he was unaware that more Bealrotti still lived. Or perhaps…”
“Or perhaps,” Darkon angrily interrupted, “We were fooled into aiding an evil, twisted mage in to doing gods know what! More and more I am convinced we were a simple distraction and my Sevele paid with her life for our stupid eagerness for adventure.”
That last word bellowed in anger and frustration, echoed again and again from the great hall down the hallways and beyond. All were silent as they knew no words would calm the grief burdened Demonslayer. For a moment Darkon looked as if ready to explode but he slowly breathed until the redness of rage left his face and once again the coldness of calm returned to him. This was the last bit of proof he needed to invoke an oath of vengeance against the life of Merleptus. He would pray to Halren, god of law and revenge, for the right and guidance to do so. Remembering his teachings he knew that if Halren wished the oath not to take place a sign would prove so. Halren would not allow vengeance for the mere sake of it. He demanded true cause and true loss to have been done to the one seeking the oath. If one were to disobey his law Halren himself would surely take his own godly vengeance upon that person. He remembered as well that the invoking of Halren’s pledge would take a sacrifice of some sort to gain the gods attention and favor, but he did not recall quite what the sacrifice would require.
Galen smacked Darkon's shoulder hard, knowing that he was drifting from their purpose. “Darkon, let us move on, we’ll deal with the lying wizard later.”
Darkon shook his head as if to clear his mind and nodded in understanding. Keeping silent he walked further into the palace, the others not far behind. Graton, trailing last, stopped as the others moved ahead and turned down a hallway and left him alone.
Looking slightly upwards he said, “Merleptus, I know very well you may be watching us, so I’ll speak my mind.”
He hesitated a moment and waited and he was rewarded by a pinpoint of light that appeared near the ceiling, confirming the mage’s attentiveness.
“You’ve a serious problem now, mage. Have you been watching us as we’ve fought through the Abyss and Mastalon? This group of adventurers as you call us is not just what you see. There is a fate, a destiny tied to why we’ve all come together and the gods have everything to do with it. Your fate was sealed the day that Demonslayer saw your face, foolish human. Now all of the Abyss combined could not stop him from finding you.”
His tone was harsh but an amused twinkle lit his eyes as he quickly walked to the doorway.
Turning back before he entered it he added, “I, on the other hand, have learned the value of forgiveness. I am not convinced you are as treacherous as the others assume and I have faith that if you could somehow prove your innocence all would be forgiven. Also, a little unasked for assistance could go a long way toward saving your life. Think about it, wizard.”

^ ^ ^

Merleptus’ mood brightened. In one moment the Griffon lord both condemned and gave hope to the scheming mage. The elf was new at dealing with humans and did not yet realize how evil some of them could be. He obviously still held some belief that the wizard might be innocent of Darkon’s accusations. Of course, the mage would have to prove his innocence as Graton had said and that would be difficult for innocent he was not. Still, Darkon had not truly seen his face for he’d used a magical disguise at those times when they were face to face so he was confident that he would not be found unless he chose to be. The mage was still driven to acquire the services of the group so he would not stop his attempts at gaining favor with them.
Perhaps if he returned Darkon's beloved 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 did not even scream as Gemini pulled it out. The second was not deeply planted in his side and only still remained there because of his armor wrapping around it. Again Graton did naught but grunt as it was tugged away. The third was life threatening. It was well aimed and maybe even spell guided and nearly struck a lung. It was deep and Gemini had to ask Darkon to hold Graton down as the arrow was pulled. Graton insisted he would not need the precaution but he was silenced by an elven admonishment from Gemini. Needless to say, Graton did benefit from having the Demonslayer hold his arms down for if he had not Gemini would never have gotten the arrow loose, and Graton this time did scream. He barely clung to awareness as Darkon hurried to apply the salve of healing and found that it took two doses to heal his friend, three doses remained. Perhaps the one thing cursed Merleptus had been worth meeting for was the Salve of Noor. It had surely saved Graton’s life and thus Galen’s quest to free his family.
Galen joined Ralac upon the balcony and looked down at the quivering form of Par-Than. He carefully pulled the wizard’s arms out to either side of his body thus disallowing any complicated spell casting.
Galen then stepped lightly on the fingers of the wretched mage’s right hand and said, “Par-Than, your treason is known to me and your fate is already decided but to lighten your inevitable punishment, I ask you to aid me now.”
Ralac crouched before the mage’s face and grinned as he wiped his dagger across the mage’s robe.
Par-Than knew he would be executed but thought if he could buy himself some time he may be able to escape the Mastalon family’s wrath. “Yes, yes my prince, of course! I will do anything!”
Galen and Ralac both smiled. “Tell me first where my parents are being held and then where Satar is hiding.” Galen demanded.
“Your parents and sister are safe and well taken care of in the royal dungeon where your father kept the lightest of offenders. Guarding them are two vile demons Satar somehow summoned.”
Galen felt some relief but wouldn’t show it to the evil mage. He kicked Par-Than hard in the ribcage and tread harder on his delicate fingers as he demanded, “Satar, where is he?”
Par-Than took a moment to recover his breath and vision before he said, “The insane fool sleeps in your very own bedchamber my prince! He does not sleep often but when he does even a great battle cannot awaken him. I attempted to do so when word of your attack reached me but he did not reply.”
The mage grunted and spat blood as he was kicked again. Darkon had just arrived from the main floor below and had joyfully joined in the wizard’s abuse.
“Well, a reply I did get, but not from Satar.” Across from the prince, Darkon nodded his assent that the mage did not lie. The flow once again proved its usefulness, as Par-Than's undefended, desperate mind was open even to an untrained thought reader.
Par-Than wheezed hard and continued, “A being I've never seen before demanded I handle any disturbances. I know not if it was a demon or a living shadow for it could have been either but then a feeling of dread I could not control washed over me and I had to break contact with it.”
Darkon’s voice rose above the din of wounded men and said, “I knew it, there are demons to be dealt with.”
Galen and Ralac exchanged amused glances as the prince began to tie Par-Than to a railing and disallowed his digits any room to wriggle. The torn up tapestry he used artfully displayed a man's bare posterior just under the mages nose. No one saw fit to comment on so simple a jest but it was not missed. Par-Than tried again to plead for mercy but Galen spat into one of his eyes and sent him to unconsciousness with a solid elbow to the skull.
Gathered again upon the ballroom floor Galen and his friends decided upon their next moves.
“My family should be my main concern but I fear Satar might escape or bring more trouble than we are prepared for.” Galen said.
“Fear not, friend Galen,” said Gemini, “Darkon and I agreed that we two would be best chosen to free your family because of the demons that stand watch over them.”
“What about the demon that is by Satar’s side?” Graton asked with the tragedy in the Abyss still clear in his mind. Gemini nodded and reached inside a pouch that was sewn into the folds of his robe. From it he produced a charm, dangling from a silver chain. It was the necklace Ralac had shown him when he and Gemini had appeared out of the darkness one night. It came from a mage under Satar’s employ.
“With this around any one of your necks the fear instilled by unearthly creatures will be lessened greatly. This item is not long lasting though. Once it actively absorbs the negative emotions it will begin to deteriorate so you must deal with the creature hastily.”
Tam then handed the item over to Graton who placed the charm around his own neck. Ralac had another for himself and each of his companions. His time among the royal guard had been quite useful.
Galen pondered again the strange circumstance that brought him together with these four brave and talented men and thought that fate had much to do with it. He pondered for a moment what else might be in store for the fated companionship.
“Very good, Darkon, Tam Geminilanthis, may fate smile upon you both.” Galen spoke as he grasped the men’s arms in a warrior’s clasp. “Please, my friends, take great care of my family.”
There was a long moment of handshaking and shoulder clapping before the two groups split up and took two different routes from the ballroom. One group consisted of a proud and angry prince, a noble and deadly elf, and a silently creeping, shadow enthralled killer. The other, a grim and vengeful Demonslayer and an elven sorcerer who’s desire to learn was only equaled by his need to right unjustness. Purposefully they moved and with every step each of them took, one step closer to their unknown destinies, their confidence grew. How could it not when each had so much confidence and trust in the rest?

^ ^ ^


Havocville was no place for young women and neither was it a place for young men whose hearts were pure. Cann-Dar knew that well enough but Krosten demanded the young Demonslayers join them in the noisy, smelly town. Slaytor kept close watch over the beautiful young ladies of Slayaria never taking his hand from the haft of his treasured axe. Already, after barely an hour’s time, a drunken pair of men asked the dwarf how much one of the girls would cost them for the night. Their answer, surprisingly, did not come from Slaytor’s axe but instead came from the Demonslayer men whom at once pummeled the drunks into unconsciousness. Slaytor seemed at first remiss at their actions but truly he was only disappointed in how long it took them to finish the two oafs. Krosten all the while paid no heed to their actions. He was otherwise distracted following the urgings of a spell of finding he had been given from the blessed All Mother.
It wasn’t long before the group had walked around and through the bustling place and away from it to the east. Twilight came and the group of Demonslayers and their guardian mentors stopped at what looked like the sight of where a house had burned to the ground. It was here that Krosten’s enspelled trance ended and he finally spoke.
“He was here.” He said to no one in particular.
Cann-Dar looked around and wondered if the son of the black tiger clan still lived.
As if sensing those thoughts Krosten said, “He yet lives but he is far from here now. I believe to the south.”
As they stood over the charred earth and watched the sun fall below the horizon, Kirstana, one of the more talented of the remaining Slayarian priestesses, kneeled and prayed for guidance. Kirstana was a self taught priestess of Aeleostrimine, the goddess of nature and change. One who had lived out her youth alongside a foster family in a steppe region that lay far to the east of Greece near Kazakhstan. Though she had no formal training as a priestess her bond with Aeleostrimine was strong and her talents with herbs, animals and people were exceptional. Having grown among the hardy folk of the steppes and having lived within those rugged wild lands her skills were no surprise to Krosten who looked on with pride at her casting. It was a minor spell for the old priest but a dangerous one for an inexperienced priestess. She named her goddess granted spells as she prayed for the power and guidance to cast them for she did not know what her people had dubbed the spell. This one she named, “Song to the Living Ghosts.” The spell would grant her visions of a particular object or location’s past.
Quietly chanting, Kirstana had no idea all eyes were upon her. For several minutes they silently waited for the young priestess to move or speak. Soon the chanting stopped as the full effects of the spell took over and she began to witness, within her mind, the last two days of the house’s existence. She watched as Rena hid from her brothers and fell asleep. She watched as the innocent girl was horribly violated while paralyzed with fear. She saw the face of the man who committed the evil act and she was then suddenly stricken with an unexplainable terror. Kirstana screamed aloud then and attempted to fight off the cruel man who groped her. Lashing out in defense the spell was broken and she realized to her remorse that it was Treacor the brooding ranger who she had struck as he tried to calm her. He took that blow and another without changing his expression or the soothing tones with which he whispered to the strong priestess. Her years in the steppes and forests had made her as agile and tough as she was captivatingly beautiful so it took some effort to hold her still.
As the servant of the goddess of nature and change finally regained composure enough to speak, tears still streaming from her big brown eyes, she looked to Treacor and apologized. The young ranger said nothing but gave her a reassuring hug before he stood and allowed Krosten to kneel by her side.
Looking directly into her clear, chestnut eyes, Krosten said, “You are well ahead in your learning but you must still obtain the wisdom of years.”
Kirstana nodded in understanding and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Krosten then moved his ears closer to her as she whispered to him all she had seen and felt.
Soon after the old man stood and looked resignedly southward. “We must continue in the morning but for now we may resupply in town.”
Seven of eight Demonslayers and the unlikely pair of elf and dwarf all turned toward Havoctown as one, heeding Krosten’s command. Yet one Demonslayer had not moved, instead he was glaring intensely at the back of Krosten’s head. Treacor was a tall, lean young man. His brown hair hung carelessly about his head and his weather stained cloak and breeches gave one the impression that he cared nothing for superficial things. Treacor had been fostered in by northern Timber Elves east and north of the netherlands since the fall of Slayaria. The ways of a ranger were his true calling. Raised as an individualist he did not like being ordered around or dismissed as someone inconsequential. Having spent the last three years fighting beside the proud Timber Elves against goblins, giants and Norsemen, he was confident and sure of his own opinions. He would never allow anyone to dictate his life to him. Thus, when Krosten announced they would continue the journey south he decided it was his turn to make a decision
“Old man, I disagree!”
Stopping in his tracks Krosten turned about and sternly regarded the quiet ranger.
Undaunted, Treacor continued, “I don’t know why we’re wasting time tracking down one Demonslayer who may or may not be alive anyway. We should leave a message here in this town and head north and begin searching for the relics of our people.”
A few of Treacor's fellow young Demonslayers looked downward or simply avoided Krosten’s gaze as he looked toward them. Some of them agreed with Treacor but none would say so aloud.
“Treacor,” Began the old priest, “I hear your words and I understand your frustration but you all must realize that the one we seek is the only son of the ruling clan. His abilities and presence will be a great asset to our cause.”
Treacor obviously disbelieved or cared little for Krosten’s words for he simply snorted and derisively said, “All bow to the wisdom of our elders, they couldn’t save our people but…”
Before he could continue in that stinging line of thought though, Sirsi’ interrupted him.
Sirsi’ was a short, stocky yet comely priestess of Kleana. Her silky black hair was tied in a bun allowing the smooth lines of her face and her piercing, dark eyes to be seen. Though she wore chain mail armor much like a warrior her grace was not concealed in the least. She easily moved with fluidity many women would never achieve, thanks to her years growing up among the people of Greece.
Thus, all fell silent when she said, “Treacor, there is no need to insult our only guide left in this world.” The ranger angrily turned from his brethren but remained quiet. “Krosten, Treacor speaks in a harsh and accusing manner and in that he is wrong.”
“Yet what he says, by my own opinion as well, is quite understandable. Must we commit all of our combined efforts to find one person? Understand revered one, we may be young but we are not incapable. Would it be so inconceivable to send some of us south to continue the search while the rest head home?”
Krosten paused a moment before answering for his throat was full of pride for both young slayers who had decided to speak their minds.
Keeping his face expressionless he finally said, “Sirsi’, Treacor, your thoughts are not lost on me. I may indeed do as you say. The problem I face though is which of you would make the journey south.”
Shock was written on many a young face then for none had witnessed any evidence to date that suggested the old priest would ever consider another’s opinion. Especially those of the gathered young slayers. Cann-Dar and Slaytor smiled widely. The two had known Krosten for three decades and understood his ways better than any that lived. They knew Krosten would never coax someone into action when he could frustrate them until they felt they had no recourse. It was his belief that the truly intelligent and able would always rise to the occasion and this moment showed he was correct.
Krosten smiled and walked over to the confused Treacor and embraced him. The ranger was too stunned to return the embrace before Krosten let go and faced the others.
“Treacor has shown wisdom and courage by speaking out today, as has Sirsi’ by taking his side and standing beside him. Thus, it is with great pride that I ask that they be two of the four I will send south.” Treacor began to stammer protest but Krosten would hear none of it. “With Slaytor as their guide, Kirstana will also make the journey and I am sure complete this important task.”
Kirstana stepped forward next to the beaming dwarf, Sirsi’ and Treacor while Krosten had the others empty their packs and hand over their provisions to them.
“After our dear friend Slaytor I name Sirsi’ as leader. She has shown the calm understanding necessary to bring you all home in one piece.” He said.
Treacor seemed about to protest the appointing of leadership but was halted by a dwarven punch to the ribcage. Slaytor chuckled as the cocky ranger doubled over and tried to find his breath.
“There are times when you need to speak up boy, but now is not one of them!” Slaytor explained through his beard.
Treacor heard the dwarf’s words and understood that he spoke the truth. He regretted his harsh words earlier and his thoughts these past several weeks. If he had known Krosten was testing them he would have tried harder to disappoint the high priest. Now it was too late for that and he had unwittingly impressed Krosten and now his peers looked at him in a new light. Then again, the way Kirstana’s eyes lit up when she looked at him did not have to be a bad thing.
Soon after, the two groups separated and were moving briskly on their way. Slaytor’s charges were newly invigorated by the confidence Krosten had shown in them as the high priest’s party sought to resupply and get away from Havoctown as soon as possible before any wary servants of demon kind noticed them. Slaytor said little on the four hour hike south except that they should stop before midnight. Treacor and Sirsi’ chatted whenever possible while Kirstana had said barely a thing at all. Kirstana was confused by the quick change of methods by Krosten and she did not know what she had done to deserve going along on the journey.
It was near midnight when they finally did stop, made camp and a small fire to sleep by. Treacor took first watch. He sat at the edge of the small camp and looked out over the flat horizons on all sides of him. The plains of Gaul were nothing like the timber country he knew so well and he felt exposed for any creature to notice and attack. So concentrated was his elven trained attention he did not notice when Kirstana stood and approached him. She tapped his shoulder so lightly shivers ran up his spine and as he turned he almost opened his arms to embrace her for some strange impulse told him she had come to him to be near his side. Inside he knew he had merely wanted that to be true but her next words changed that line of thought.
“Treacor, I’m sorry if I startled you.”
The ranger nodded off her concern and gestured for her to sit down.
Kirstana thought for a moment the rough looking ranger was about to embrace her, but she quietly let the moment pass and said, “I’ve realized we made a mistake and we must go back and find Krosten.”
Treacor, not knowing her reasons, tried to calm her fears. “Surely we’ll be fine, you’re just nervous.”
She would have none of it though and she continued in a louder voice, “No, don’t you see? The only way we could ever find the lost one is with Krosten. It was by his power alone that we’ve followed Darkon’s trail this far. We’re heading blindly south while he may be somewhere else by now!”
Now Treacor understood, and he cursed aloud. Kirstana was right. They were following an imagined trail, one that could lead them to the edge of the world when their purpose for heading southward was long gone.
“We’ll pray.” Treacor finally said. “We’ll pray.”


CHAPTER 23
DEMON DUEL


Darkon ducked behind a stack of empty barrels as the winged demon walked by the dungeon entrance. He could feel the invigorating hum of his body as it yearned to put an end to the thing’s existence. He resisted though, for the family of his good friend was under the care of the creature and its partner. It would not do to attack one and have the other take the lives of the royal family. So, he bided his time until Gemini sent along the awaited signal. The mage was moving invisibly about the dungeons, discovering the whereabouts of the Mastalon’s. He had been gone for a half an hour, too long for Darkon's liking.
The demons were powerful members of their kind and were most likely immune to mundane weapons, and as Tam noted, some magical attacks were also useless against them. Using the mindflow to reach his own lost memories from his youth and Tam’s learning’s on demon lore they recalled that particular information as soon as they sighted the first beast. Luckily for them the rumors of demons having acute senses were exaggerated. In their realm it was no mere rumor but upon the mortal realm there were too many different things that were not present at all in the Abyss. Their senses were often overloaded by the constant assault of alien smells and sounds. The two skulking rescuers were sure they could defeat the seven foot tall, jackal headed, chameleon scaled monsters but the safety of those they were here to save were their first concern. As soon as Darkon heard the happy sound of a dinner bell he knew the time for skulking had passed. He would now steal closer for the count of ten and then attack the closest beast.
As he rounded the doorframe the back of the first demon came into view. The vile thing was facing a happily talking man wearing the garb of a baker or cook. A fat man he was, all smiles and dimples. He chattered exuberantly about his home recipe of stuffed gnome. A small table sat in front of him and upon its surface was a gnome, well done and dressed in a savory butter sauce.
Darkon almost chuckled aloud as the illusionary cook sliced off a hunk of meat and waved it enticingly before the demon’s noses. He stayed silent though as he counted down, five, four, three, and then the second demon finally came out of its hiding spot somewhere above its fellow. It had been hiding among the dark enveloped rafters of this, the topmost level of the dungeons of Mastalon. Ralac had told of a hidden tunnel that led to the royal chambers. Galen assured him that it must be a recent addition. As the two now slobbering, hunger entranced demons closed on the fat man, he called on the mindflow to reshape his arm into a wicked killing blade. In two breaths it did so and he took four long strides, while crouching low and keeping his arm pointed at the ground, toward the demons. He was unnoticed until one found a blade protruding from its belly. The slow witted thing looked down and then at its comrade. Both demons blamed the inconvenience on the still smiling cook and as one they leapt upon him.
The illusion disappeared on contact but the trick had done its job. Darkon stepped back a few paces knowing the spells of Gemini would be oncoming, and they were. Like in the sewers when Ralac revealed the traitor among them, Gemini’s one hundred needles swarmed unerringly into the ugly faces of the surprised demons. This time though, the spell did not affect the creatures nearly as well as they did the fake Bele’. They stood, heads smoking, one’s belly bleeding and roared in fury. Before they leapt toward Darkon he heard Gemini somewhere in the rafters swear a disturbing vituperation in the elven tongue.
“Schyalen un vratou!” Loosely translated, “Uh oh, they’re tough!

^ ^ ^

Ralac had traveled these hallways before under the guise of a Persian harem guard and so he knew something was different. There were no torches lit, no candles or warm fireplace. There was no groaning of tortured men echoing from the dungeons. Satar had installed a tunnel for just such an effect and Ralac traversed those tunnels twice searching for an exit. As he had told Gemini he had instead found a dormant monster that blocked the passage at the bottom. It was his description of the creature that armed Tam and Darkon with some foreknowledge of the kind of demon they were to face, guarding the royal family.
Also, the four bodyguards Satar never had far away from him had been found as soon as Ralac topped the final flight of stairs that led here to the royal bedchambers. The huge ogrish men had been slain by something that wielded wicked claws and their own weapons were not bloodied. The private throne room was empty except for the dying man Satar had been using for a footstool. If not for the assurances of the cowardly Par-Than, Ralac would have sworn Satar had fled.
Behind him, walking boldly down the center of the hallways, Galen and the Griffon lord noticed and ignored all the same signs. Galen seemed sure that Par-Than wouldn’t have lied and by the way the evil wizard quivered whenever the prince glared at him Ralac believed it.
How mad Satar must be, Galen thought to himself. To not only leave his person virtually unguarded but also to rest in the one place Galen could not have possibly forgotten. Ralac had told of his insane ravings and hysterical actions but to the prince this was still inconceivable. To so easily move through the inner palace and get to Satar was not how one expected to be received.
Ralac listened intently at the nearest chamber doors that were, unbeknownst to him, the chambers of Galen's younger sister. Turning the iron and gold door handle he pushed the surprisingly light door open to reveal a dark chamber that was in shambles. Only the magic glow from some trinket showed any of the room to him and he bent warily to retrieve it. As he picked it up the golden ring caused pins and needles to race up his arms. Quickly he pocketed it and returned to the hallway where Galen and Graton were approaching. Giving a signal that all was clear the boyish assassin returned to the shadows he felt so at ease within.
The heavy oak door to Galen's chamber soon came within everyone’s sight and they gathered a few feet from it. Graton placed the fear stopping charm prominently on his chest as the others checked their weapons. No sound came from the supposedly inhabited rooms as Graton cast a spell that would reveal to him any magical warding or traps. He traced a pattern in the air that remained visible wavering in the gloomy light like the heat rising from the horizon on a mid summers day. He pointed at the door and the airborne sigil floated silently against it, rippling outward to encompass the portal as it sought to locate magic placed upon the door. None appeared to exist so Galen boldly pushed open the door and strode forward.
A single torch lit the entrance hall where two arches stood doorless and dark. The light from the flickering flame made it impossible to see in the inky blackness beyond. Brandishing the mighty spear of Bailick, Graton motioned for the others to follow his lead. Galen did so but Ralac took the shadowed route, avoiding the light of the elven spear. After a nervous few seconds of being surrounded by utter darkness a short hall that led to Galen’s bedroom became suddenly visible in the flickering glow of several black candles. Now, even Galen crept, expecting an awaiting monster after every step. None appeared though as they entered the candle lit chamber.
For a long moment the men stood, weapons ready, at the very foot of Galen’s own bed. A man-sized shape rolled over in its sleep covered by a heavy quilt, while Ralac soundlessly moved beside the bed. When all were ready he pulled the down filled quilt back to reveal two, very curvaceous, naked women. The movement did not wake them nor did they stir when Ralac impulsively reached out and softly caressed their smooth behinds. Graton chastised him a hissing reproach, silently as only an elf could, and Ralac pulled quickly away. Shrugging sheepishly while brandishing a wolfish grin the young one eyed man moved backwards into the inky shadows.
There was clearly something wrong, Galen thought. Satar should have been there. Then again if Satar had some warning he may have indeed escaped. As if mocking his very thoughts the prince heard laughter suddenly that could not be confused with anyone other than the insane Satar.
His taunting voice rang loudly in the dark chambers as he proclaimed, “Finally you have come to me! Better still, you have come as the truth has dawned on me.”
Following the echo toward the bedrooms adjacent living quarters, Galen answered in a patronizing tone, “And what realization is that, madman?”
Graton moved steadily beside him as they sighted Satar sitting upon what appeared to be a barrel. He sat upon that barrel as if he were holding court for the city’s diplomats.
“I now see that I have made a grievous error in judgment. Your beloved family I have allowed to live and live well indeed considering the situation. I see now, too late mind you, that I should have slain them all and left their skinned carcasses to greet you at the gate.” Satar pronounced, looking quite confident and pleased with himself.
Galen’s face grew red with rage and he barely restrained himself from running in on Satar and finishing this thing immediately.
Instead he stated through clenched teeth, “You are hereby acknowledged for your crimes and as prince of Genossia I ask you, do you want to wait for your execution or shall I be done with it right now?”
Satar did not reply as he stood and drew his enchanted sword. He tested its weight with a mighty two handed swing and broke into an incessant, giggling laughter. Galen needed no more provocation. Charging one another from the several feet that separated them the two swords, wielded by two men of adamant purpose, came together in a shower of multi-colored sparks. Graton and Ralac held their ground knowing Galen’s desire to defeat Satar alone, neither man would interfere unless necessary.
Satar and Galen were raised to be warriors, so as they exchanged blows no one was surprised that no advantage could be seen or taken in that first flurry of lunges, chops, thrusts, and feints. Galen began with an overhand swing that Satar easily turned aside with his own mighty weapon. With swiftness that bespoke of spell craft Satar then stepped forward in a thrust that should have impaled the prince. Galen had learned some time ago that it was simpler to use his foes parried blows to add to his own momentum than try to absorb each blow and return the favor. Too many times had he been off balance when absorbing the blow from a larger enemy and nearly been stabbed through the ribcage. As Satar thrust forward Galen was spinning and ducking in preparation for a strike of his own. Satar again showed his speed as he darted backward to avoid the coming swing.
Instead of continuing the fight though Satar allowed Galen to recover and stand guard. With madness clear in his eyes Satar said, “Did I mention that though I did not harm your sweet sister, I have fully enjoyed her royal fruit?”
Galen had so far done well in controlling his temper and he immediately recognized Satar was simply trying to distract him but at the mention of his dear, innocent sister, the death of Rena came unbidden to mind. He could no longer hold back the tears of rage that described his fury to the world. Snarling his anguish over what had been done to poor Rena he began a dangerous assault on Satar. It was suddenly not the beautiful dance of two skilled swordsmen. It was a battle of pure hatred and rage.
It was all Satar could do at first to fend off the princes’ attacks but eventually Galen tired. Blow after blow aided neither man but Satar's heavier sword battered Galen's defense. His sword arm was numb and tingling. The prince was the quicker of the two but his lack of magical assistance left him without any advantage. Once, as Satar lifted his elbows above his shoulders preparing for a sweeping swing Galen made a low lunge that should have gutted the madman but with a flash of red an enchanted gem protected him just enough and winked out, its magic expended. Galen’s sword skittered downward. Off-balance he took a heavy blow from the flat of Satar's blade against his right side and shoulder. Ignoring the stinging pain he rolled forward for Satar’s legs and held his sword straight out to his right, hoping to catch the bigger man as he retreated. Instead, with an agility that belied his greater weight, Satar escaped with a back flip. Galen cursed as he got to his feet while Satar had yet to stop his insane laughing.
Nearby, Graton was peering through the darkness with his acute elven senses trying to find Ralac who had crept away unnoticed. Normally his elven eyes would easily penetrate the darkness but the blackness had become impenetrable to him. Then, a moment later as Satar circled the now panting Galen a shape came into view. At first it looked as if pure darkness had come to life that held in its hands the struggling form of Ralac. Double-taking, Graton realized this was no illusion or trick. The creature indeed held the assassin’s head between its palms and by the slowing resistance Ralac put up, the elf knew he was being crushed. The shadow creature stood well over the head of Ralac and the assassin was now on his knees anyway. Relying on pure instinct Graton loosed the glowing spear of Bailick. The thing appeared to see the throw and then looked at the human still in its grip, as if it was unsure whether to finish what it had begun or avoid the deadly weapon heading its way. Too late it dropped Ralac in a heap and tried to dodge, its non-mortal reflexes were very fast but still not fast enough. The spear struck just above its left ribcage and it howled in pain.
The light of the spear brightened and banished the darkness the creature wore like a robe, and its true shape was revealed. Short fur covered its muscled, nine foot frame and its small spiraling horns accentuated its eerily glowing eyes. A demon surely but what was most disconcerting to Graton was the way its form seemed super imposed over another, smaller and lesser demonic form. The larger form was transparent and seemed to be a spirit or illusion of some kind, but there was no denying his ability to defeat crafty Ralac. The smaller scaled creature was what truly took Graton’s spear in the vital organs and clearly might not survive the well aimed attack.
The battle between prince and usurper paused at that moment as angry howls shook the floor and foundation of the very palace. Both men braced themselves against nearby walls and stared at the demonic tantrum.
Its initial bellows were incoherent but it soon shifted to the human language of Gaul and said, “Satar, I have lost my tenuous hold on this world for my vessel has been slain! You must escape and resummon me!”
“Fool! I warned you to take a stronger form, but fear not, death means little to the son of Satarnafoon!” Again, laughter overtook Satar.
The greater image seemed to shatter and disappeared, while the reptilian demon with a wild dog’s head howled and fell upon its back. The spear was pushed straight up and Graton recalled it back to the helm.
Galen hurriedly put up his guard as Satar madly charged forward. Raining blow after blow upon Galen’s weakening parries, Satar suddenly seemed a man possessed. The laughter stopped and was replaced by a murderous glare. With every strike came a curse from the mad usurper and a heaving breath from the Prince of Mastalon. Neither man could gain much advantage but Satar was gaining all the leverage and still breathed freely as if he had not exerted himself in the least. Galen had already fought several battles that day and his arms were becoming like heavy stones. Satar, upon seeing this, took great satisfaction and pressed his attack even harder.
It was becoming quite obvious to the Griffon lord what this battle was leading to as he watched from beside Ralac’s fallen form.

^ ^ ^

Darkon retreated several steps under the furious assault from the two demons while Gemini prepared a more suitable spell. The Demonslayer was fully prepared to fight the demons, his sword had sprouted barbs and his every muscle was vibrating with anticipation for the kill. Even then he knew against both of the monsters he had little chance. Several claw marks already had him bleeding on his arms, legs and torso but the wounds were more superficial than deadly. Using his sword to keep the demons at bay, he never stopped thinking of ways to defeat his foe. He began to sag and limp, trying to appear tired hoping one would lunge carelessly toward him. It worked well for one of them flapped its leathery wings and used its added momentum to charge.
Feigning fear, Darkon bent one knee and accepted the charge. At the last moment he then stood and swept his blade arm across in a wide arc over the demons exposed midsection. Gore splattered him and the demon fell forward and buried him under its bulky weight. It still lived but it knew it had only a moment or two before it was sent screaming back to the Abyss so it savagely clawed at the human underneath it.
Darkon avoided many of the blind swipes but could not escape total harm. He was about to call to Gemini for aid when a great boom interrupted that thought. Pieces of the other demon rained down around him and the dying one that crushed him had gone still. He took a deep breath and gagged on the vile fumes that leaked from the demon on his chest. Still under the spell of demon hate he took another breath, did not gag, and heaved upward with his powerful muscles. Slowly the demon slid sideways to the ground. Breathing outward with relief he slowly stood and allowed the entrails and gore of the slain demon to slide off him, dripping noisily as it splashed upon the floor. He struggled not to choke as he breathed inward again.
Where the other creature had been standing was the splattered focal point of the explosion that killed it. All that remained of the thing were both its legs from the knee down. They still stood, squirting black ooze. Darkon stared at the sight in awe as Tam joined him from an empty cell.
“You would make a fine Demonslayer, my friend.” Darkon commented.
The elven mage smiled and said, “Yes, but there are so many other things that need slaying!”
Both men grinned and exchanged a strong warrior’s handclasp that was followed by the elven clasp of victory. Before today, Geminilanthis had never met a human who knew the clasp. It had been used forever by the fey folk and even the dwarves but humans were never taught the clasp since they weren’t considered to be worthy of such an honor. Gemini decided though not to mention these facts since he had never known a Demonslayer. Perhaps they were not like normal humans, perhaps they were indeed worthy of elven respect.
Moments later Darkon fished the cell keys from the scattered demon remains. Tam Geminilanthis led him to the cell where he found the royal family earlier. The cell was the largest among those on this level of the dungeon but was not by any means large itself. It was dark, foul smelling and littered with broken and burned items, unidentifiable by first glance. Huddling against the shadowed back wall of the cell were three dirt caked, quivering forms. One was a tall older man and cradled protectively in his embrace were two petite, filth covered women. The man’s eyes told tales of terror and torture but Darkon recognized the fiery glint of rage he had come to know well in another. This must surely be Galen’s proud father.
“Great king of Genossia, I am Darkon and my comrade is Gemini. We have come in your son’s name to free you and take you to him!” Darkon stood unmoving and expressionless before the now open cell door, unsure how to reassure the frightened family.
It wasn’t until Gemini, seeing the hesitation and mistrust of the royal family, actually entered the cell and bowed before the man and women. Quietly he whispered soothing words that Darkon could not hear, and then he seemed to question the smallest, which answered him in a short manner. Tam then backed out of the cell and motioned Darkon to back away from the area a few feet further. Slowly, never taking their eyes off Darkon, they crept out from their vile prison. The king stepped out first, hoping to take the brunt of whatever trap awaited his beloved wife and daughter for himself. No trap came though and after a tense moment of silence the three, traumatized folk finally seemed to relax and then tentatively walked toward Gemini.
“Come, my lord, I will take you to your son when you have left this place behind.” Gemini held a leading arm toward the dungeon exit tunnel. From the doorway came sounds of people in alarm and even battle, the old guard was distracting Satar’s main forces while the prince attacked from within. The men had done their job well even without Bele’ to command them.
As the king left Gemini behind a few paces the elf whispered to Darkon that a tunnel led directly from this dungeon to Satar’s chambers where Galen must be fighting even now. Darkon took his meaning but couldn’t help his confusion over the Mastalons’ reaction to him.
Gemini stopped then and said, “Covered in demon gore and garbed as a savage warrior you make for a frightening visage, my friend. They thought you served Satar or were death himself come to claim them. Understand, Darkon, they have seen much during their time spent here.” Gemini then directed his gaze to the floor, letting Darkon follow it. “Those are the remains of several men who tried to save them but instead were burned alive before they’re eyes and at they’re very feet.”
Gemini exited the dungeon and followed the Mastalon’s above ground. Darkon stared for a short while at the six bodies that had once been men of courage and honor and he took from the sight strength in his conviction to remain true as a Demonslayer. He may not recall all of his childhood, but he would, little by little. He would remember the tales of heroism and legends of his people and he knew that in reverence to those memories he would never allow such horrors as this to be inflicted upon anyone he could protect. He knew as well that a big part of protecting others from these horrors was bringing his people back to their righteous path. That was what he knew must be his ultimate purpose and once Genossia was set aright he would seek out Krosten and do whatever was in his power and influence to do just that.
By all he held true, every evil thing that crossed his path would pay for what was done to his sweet Sevele. Heading for the tunnel in the rafters Darkon smiled a determined grin and hauled his weight into the tunnel above. He could not help but hope there was still a stray demon that needed to be destroyed by his flow created weapon.


CHAPTER 24
ALONE IN THE DARK


Slaytor merely shrugged and continued walking when Kirstana asked him for the tenth time how they were supposed to find her fellow Demonslayer. The dwarf understood her concern but he figured Krosten knew what he was doing when he sent three young Demonslayers and only a temperamental dwarf to guide them to an unknown destination.
“Girl,” He hollered, “I don’t know how! I just know we will find him. You gotta have faith.” He then pointed in her face with a stubby digit, “You’re the priestess, girl, you know that already!”
Ashamed, Kirstana looked at the ground. He was right, she should have more faith. She knew there were spells she could plead with her goddess for that would help them but she knew she had not attained the enlightenment necessary for a spell of that power. How could she, a girl raised in wild lands and never taught the true rites and rituals of her goddess, accomplish what Krosten so easily had? In fact, she remembered, it was only by happenstance that she had even learned of Aeleostrimine, goddess of nature and change.
When she was twelve Kirstana would often sneak away from her parents’ cabin and explore the surrounding forest. It was on one of those secret excursions that she stumbled upon a wolf that had something trapped in a small burrow. She had been about to skirt around the area, not wanting to frighten the animal, when a tiny voice called out from the burrow. The voice seemed to be akin to the music Kirstana had heard on occasion being played by strangers passing through. Drawn by curiosity she found some undergrowth to hide behind and waited to see what happened next.
What occurred then was to that little girl both amazing and delightful. The tiny voice grew louder and the wolf licked its chops in anticipation. Another moment and a shape moved slowly from the hole. Instead of attacking immediately, as Kirstana expected it to, the nearly four foot high lone wolf sat on its haunches and perked its up ears. It sat like some obedient pet awaiting a treat from its master.
A furry coney, looking very dead, seemed to float on its own from the hole and land unceremoniously at the big paws of the excited wolf. Revealed from under the coney and standing before the great handsome wolf, with a smile as wide as it was tall, was some sort of fearie.
“Alright, my friend, there’s your dinner!” It said happily to the wolf.
Immediately the wolf snatched up its meal and trotted several feet away before tearing into it.
The fearie stood nearly a foot tall and wore not a stitch of clothing. It had no hair nor did it have any wings, as many stories seemed to say a fearie would. Its skin was light green and it shimmered like a reflection from a pond. Though it did not appear capable of hauling a fat rabbit from its hole it had done so with ease. Surely this was a truly magical creature.
As she thought that the fearie clapped his hands together and produced a rose, red as the coney’s blood, from thin air. The fey being must have heard her gasp for it turned directly her way and held the flower, which was longer than it was, toward her.
“A flower for a pretty human girl?” It asked.
Kirstana held her breath, not daring to respond. She did not yet believe the fearie actually knew where she was.
“Do not fear me. I am friend to all who are friendly, come out, my name is Siirilri!”
Kirstana called out from the underbrush below a black oak. “What about that wolf? Are you fey or is this a goblin trick?”
Siirilri laughed heartily and Kirstana could sense the genuine honesty of the fearie as it said, “I am fearie, young one, and that wolf is harmless as long as you are not my enemy. He is the one that told me you were there while I was convincing the rabbit to feed him. Fear not! He told me he likes you very much!”
His voice seemed so beautiful to her ears that she knew he must speak the truth and the wolf never moved from its meal. She stepped from hiding then and walked to the fearie who began to dance a merry jig. Kirstana giggled and laughed and even cried the entire night after that as Siirilri told her wonderful tale after tale, many of which coincidentally gave mention to Aeleostrimine. Siirilri explained the sometimes cruel character of nature herself and the unending bounty she provided. He explained how change itself was a shared course for all things born of nature. Thus, nature and change were one and the same. He also told of Aeleostrimine’s siblings, all of which were gods as well but were revered by other goodly races and sometimes by different names. Siirilri hinted at a forgotten race of men who also worshiped every one of those gods and who championed the cause of all the good peoples of earth. He would not elaborate, explaining that it was not allowed to casually discuss those people for they had a secret society out of necessity.
Kirstana did not know of whom the fearie spoke then but she vividly remembered the chill that coursed through her body for a long moment after he mentioned that unnamed of race. She now knew he spoke of her very own people who she then did not recall because of Krosten’s spell. Ever since that fateful meeting she had been praying and sacrificing the proper herbs and flowers to Aeleostrimine. She was drawn to embrace nature itself as a beaver was drawn to build.
Krosten assured her that she had trained nearly as long as a Slayarian priestess would have and by his judgment she excelled considering what training she’d received. The truth was she never received any training at all and mostly because she did not need it. Instinct and faith were her only guides through her eventual enlightenment. By the time she reached fourteen she could utilize her blessed prayers.
The first spell came to her in a time of need when she fell from a tree limb while on another of her solo trips into the forest. Her ankle broke when she landed and she was a long way from home. At first she had bound it tightly with strips of cloth and used some fallen branches as splints on either side of her foot. When the pain grew unbearable and she could hobble no further, she proceeded to build a makeshift altar of twigs and holly. She laid over the altar many of the rarer herbs she had with her and began praying to her goddess.
Two hours passed and Kirstana faithfully prayed on. Walking on but existing only for the goddess. Ignoring the increasing swelling and discoloration on her foot, she focused on her pleas for guidance. To the young girl this mishap seemed to be most likely a test sent from her goddess to see if she could survive the course of natural events. She prayed on until suddenly a series of instructions just appeared in her mind that described the making of a blessed salve that would mend her bones nearly instantly. Using the untouched plants in her pouches she crushed and mixed the herbs and added a strand of her own hair and a toenail clipping. Spitting once into the bowl she used, she then held it up toward the sky and chanted praises to nature. After a mere moment, rain downpoured all around her position but never touched anywhere within five feet of her. Reaching out and catching one of the rivulets of water into the mixing bowl her spell was completed. At that instant the rain ceased and she dabbed a bandage into the pudding thick mixture. After perhaps five minutes the ankle was fully healed. Free of pain or uncomfortable sensations, barely did she notice when the bones snapped back in place. The swelling receded in moments and only a slight discoloration and some bearable pain remained.
That occasion had been fueled by faith. Today she no longer needed any mixture or rainfall to complete that spell. Now, Kirstana knew how to heal by faith alone and it seemed only natural for her to do so. Resigned to the fact that she would get no more advice from the surly dwarf, she fell in line behind the others as they moved across grassy fields dotted with forest copses. Quietly but confidently she began to chant her prayers to Aeleostrimine.
Hours later, Kirstana had not given up, just like when she’d broken her ankle. No visions appeared to her but she had faith. Suddenly it happened! Her sight grew more focused. She now saw the world in front of her become shrouded in darkness and far off in the distance the sunlight could be seen, like a tunnel had appeared before her and no matter how she tried she could not reach its end. She hurried through the spell shaded landscape to reach that light sensing she had changed directions and that her legs seemed to be telling her where to go. The priestess stopped and turned around to see if her companions were still there and they were. Although she could see them and hear them she still felt like she was alone in the dark, the spell concentrating her senses toward her quarry. A hand touched her shoulder and she turned to see Treacor smiling at her.
“I’ll keep the way ahead of you safe but if you don’t slow down a bit Slaytor won’t be behind you to cover your back.” He said with amusement.
“I’ve been given the Seeker spell from Aeleostrimine, she has blessed our journey!” Kirstana blurted with joy.
As Slaytor reached them, breathless, he said, “Next time you’re going to run off, girl, give a person warning will you?”
She looked to Sirsi’ who smiled in a calm, reassuring way. “You bolted suddenly and we thought you spotted trouble. You’ve run like a deer for a mile!”
Kirstana did feel winded but she hadn’t noticed in her excitement. “I’m sorry! I know how to control the spell now and I promise to walk from here on.” Bending low she then kissed the huffing dwarf on his red nose which reddened even more with embarrassment. “Thank you, uncle, you are so wise.” She said.
“Alright, alright, you’re welcome! Now can we get going’?” Slaytor complained but even his great beard could not hide the smile he wore. He straightened his war helmet, tested his great axe’s weight and headed off in completely the wrong direction, which brought about much laughter from his young charges.
Later, Treacor was scouting the path ahead of them when he spotted large ribs jutting from the ground near some huge boulders. The rocks appeared as if they simply sprang from the plain’s floor as if pushed up from deep beneath the earth. Behind them the horizon flattened out so the ranger went face first to the soil and looked against the setting sun. The clumps of soil and ruts, along with hoof and ogre prints on the softer areas revealed this to be the sight of a battle. It seemed it was a battle between two big ogres and three men on horseback and what a quick and decisive battle it must have been! Though the carcasses had been picked clean the scarred bone’s revealed the nature of their demise. Few blows seemed taken by the riders but not one of them was even taken down. Which party was the aggressor?
Slaytor stared intently at Treacor’s face as the young man recited what he’d learned from the signs on the site. The dwarf had spent enough time beside elves to know whom the boy had been trained by and it was clear Treacor took that training seriously. Also, the dwarf knew what ogre signs looked like and he recognized the scarring of their bones by blades. So, he could not disagree with any of the ranger’s findings. Slaytor suspected the missing Demonslayer might have something to do with this, but he waited for Sirsi’ to confirm those suspicion’s with her spells. She did.
“They passed through here and never even stopped.” Sirsi’ said.
“They?” Slaytor asked.
“He is not alone obviously, but something will not allow me to see his companions.” Sirsi' utilized the same spell that Kirstana had used when they were at the burned out home.
The dwarf smiled then and said, “Looks like Krosten chose well in you three, now let’s make him proud!”
Those words were inspiration enough to send them walking well past midnight for they all knew then that they would succeed. They gathered that promise then in their hearts and saw their purpose ever more clearly. They were Demonslayers. They would not be stopped.

^ ^ ^

Darkon climbed the tunnel on hands and knees. He could not yet see any end to it but the sound of sword ringing upon armor echoed down to him quite clearly. The tunnel was solid darkness its entire length and he idly wondered how Ralac had discovered it. The stench of death wafted from the dungeon below but he did not slow. Even when he gagged, eyes watering and arms trembling, he would not stop. He knew that to stop would be dangerous. If he were to pass out here, no one would find him for some time. By the time they reached him he might be dead from lack of air or he might fall back down the steeply sloping tunnel to crash onto the dungeon floor.
He pushed onward finding it more and more difficult as the tunnel seemed to level out. Insects got crushed beneath his weight and he never noticed them while he carefully hugged the smooth surface. Darkon only knew that his friends might need his help. So focused was he that when the highly poisonous spider bit him, he did not notice. Only as the darkness became a myriad of colors did he realize something was wrong. Perhaps the fumes were getting to him, he thought. Eventually, as he neared the tunnel’s end he found he could not go on. His limbs trembled as chills swept through his body and sweat poured from his brow like rainfall.
Knowing the danger of falling, he took a leather strap from his sword sheath and wrapped one half of it around his wrist. The other half he wrapped about a long dagger’s pommel and he then jammed the blade with all his remaining might into a crevice in the rock wall. Nausea swept over him as he exerted himself and consciousness began to leave. Irony, he thought to himself in that final moment of awakeness. He had slain a mighty demon no normal man could have, yet this simple tunnel had apparently defeated him. The gods must be chuckling at him. More than human he may be but he was just as vulnerable as any man there…alone in the dark.

^ ^ ^

Kleana felt a sudden tugging she could not ignore. It pulled at her very being as had occurred countless times before. It was a sign that somewhere a Demonslayer was dying. Upon acknowledging that fact she followed the course suggested to her by the All Mother and alerted her brethren. So few Demonslayers lived and she knew instantaneously who was in peril, Anghar’s favorite. The war god would not be pleased to learn of this and She suspected he might interfere with the natural course of things. Normally she would be forced to quicken the slayer’s death so as to disallow interference from her sibling gods, but things had changed. All of their hopes and plans centered on bringing the Demonslayer’s back from near extinction. If Darkon was lost now, the goddess of death knew their hopes would be dashed.
With a gesture she commanded a faithful servant to hasten to the ice monolith and inform Anghar what was her non-objection to what she knew would be his eventual interference on the matter. When the messenger arrived, it was tackled at the throne room door by loyal spirit servants of Anghar, they had been ordered to stall Kleana’s messenger long enough for him to work the godly will that was his to manipulate and weave. Long enough for him to save Darkon.

^ ^ ^

Darkon awoke to find himself on a cliff, nearly frozen and covered in snow. He remembered being there before as a youth, living with the Dunnaburough clan. He had disobeyed his father and followed the sounds of festivity up the steep side of Isleer’s hill. The clan’s folk tales told of Stone Elves dwelling at its top and it was said no human had ever returned from a journey there. His father claimed that was because most men froze to death on the cliff face before they ever reached the top. Others claimed the way was secret and the elves would not allow one who had discovered those secrets to return home.
Darkon, only thirteen at the time, grew more curious with each tale and more resigned to make the journey with every warning he was given. He had climbed beside both his foster parents many times so he felt his skills were enough to allow his success. The cold though, would be an obstacle.
Shaking his head, Darkon recognized where he was and realized this was either a dream or a hallucination. He looked at his hands and saw his own fully grown ones rather than those of the youth he had been at the time.
“What is this?” He wondered aloud.
Looking around then he realized he was not alone. Buried under the snow nearby was a smaller form and it did not stir. Panic overcame his senses then and without fully understanding why, he began to frantically dig the small person out. Tears were streaking down his face and sobs soon wracked his body. He pulled the small figure onto his lap and he cleared the snow from the lad’s mouth and nose. The boy was blue and stiff and he cried even harder, trying to rock the boy back to life. Pleading with Anghar he begged for the boy’s life in return for his own. He did not know why he felt such an intense empathy for the boy’s plight but he knew somehow that it was important for the boy to live. Then, suddenly, the boys’ eyes opened wide. Darkon started for a moment but recovered quickly and began to rub warmth into his young face.
Darkon’s prayers were answered but he felt no better and he continued his pleading, “Please don’t let me die, gods hear me please! I don’t want to die!”
The boy was Darkon. He had never recalled who or what saved him that day. He only knew he awoke in his warm bed with his beloved foster parents fussing over him. They would not answer any of his questions about that day when he was brought home.
A heavy crunch of snow alerted him to a new presence on the cliff then. Looking about he saw a large man in battered armor and seemingly endless animal pelt’s. The man’s eyes were the same color as the snow that froze him that day.
“Here now, give me the lad.” Without a word Darkon stood and handed him the heavy youth.
The mysterious man took the boy and stared Darkon directly in the eye and said, “If you don’t want to die, son, you must wake up! Wake up now, lad, for there is much you must accomplish.”
For a moment Darkon only stared dumbfoundedly back at him, but then the man’s name, no, the god’s name came to him suddenly. This awesome being had saved him that day, and perhaps at other times, and he was trying to save him now!
It was Anghar.

^ ^ ^

Darkon awoke again, hanging by one dislocated shoulder in the tunnel. He felt weak, as if from fever but he knew he could linger here no longer and should leave the treacherous tunnel at once. Loosening the leather strap on his wrist he rolled over and slammed his shoulder into the wall. With a loud popping sound it returned to its socket and he screamed in agony. Through the haze of pain and confusion he recalled only a name, the name of his savior and guide, and found that name both great and true. He knew then that he had never truly been alone in that tunnel or on that cliff years ago. Anghar had always been with him.


CHAPTER 25
FAMILY REUNION


Galen fell to his knees as Satar hammered the blade he held before him with his heavier two handed weapon. The prince no longer attempted an offense of his own for he was nearly exhausted. Now, as he struggled to regain his footing under the relentless assault, he only hoped he might survive. Several of the glowing enchantments Satar had adorning his armor had been destroyed by his skilled attacks but the madman’s person had yet to be touched. Sweat and blood burned Galen’s eyes and his vision blurred. He had fought well but skill was no match for the spells Satarnafoon had wound like envenomed vines around his evil son.
Nearby, Graton waited, torn between assisting Galen and holding to his word he would not interfere.
Galen regained his feet and mentally prepared himself for what he knew would be his last offensive. Satar leered at him and circled as if sensing his victory was at hand. Galen raised his sword up and took a deep, steadying breath. He knew he might die but he was resolved to take a piece of Satar with him. As he lunged forward he felt the smallest tap as something brushed across his right forearm. He almost glanced down to decipher the source but he was taken by a sudden surge of power that seemed to start at his arm and continued throughout his body. Knowing this could be his only chance the prince put all thoughts aside. As he landed on his right foot he simultaneously ducked and spun around. Satar took a mighty swing where his upper body should have been and found himself off balance as he cleft only air.
Galen completed the spin and used the leverage and forward motion to his advantage. Coming up and across with his sword he struck the surprised Satar cleanly across the ribcage. With the added strength of Graton’s magic he would have cut through any normal adversary with ease, but Satar was still partially protected. The sword rang out as it struck Satar’s armored side and all at once the gems and enchantments upon them winked out. Satar stumbled backward a few steps from the force of the prince’s strike. Wide eyed, he looked at Galen’s face and found it leering mockingly back at him.
Thinking his father’s magic had failed him Satar did not accept the look of confidence the cursed prince proudly wore. He had seen the prince panting for breath and leaking his lifeblood from several wounds. Surely he could not stand against him now, even without his enchantments. Screaming his denial, Satar charged madly toward the unmoving prince. Closing upon Galen who was standing with legs apart and sword tip touching the ground like a child unable to gather the strength to lift it, the mad warrior howled a rage filled battle cry.
Galen waited until the last moment before he answered Satar’s mad charge with a stone solid parry that sent the demon haunted man to the ground. There was no mercy for one as vile as this. There were no parting words sufficient to describe his anger and hate for the man who had done his family and his people wrong. For what he did to Rena, his love. All of his raw emotion was focused in one final swing. With the dropping of the mighty blade, mad Satar’s head sailed, tumbling awkwardly through the air with a trail of crimson streaming behind. With a sickening thud the head smacked against the wall and fell to the floor where it rolled onto its side.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment then, until from far away a voice called out, “Victory! Prince Galen has slain the usurper! Victory for Genossia!”
Galen smiled then as the unexplained strength left his body and exhaustion returned. He felt dizzy and knew he was about pass out so he lowered his blade and tried to sit down. As he did so he caught sight of a gore spattered Demonslayer emerging from a hole in the wall and as Darkon emerged he saw his friend fall limply to the ground. Not far away, magical spearlight revealed an unconscious Ralac, head resting upon a cushion. Graton stood at a reopened, shuttered window and announced Galen’s victory to whomever might hear, never seeing Galen fall or Darkon arrive.
Darkon balked at the sight of Satar’s decapitated form and then spat derisively toward the gushing corpse. As he turned toward his fallen friends he nearly tripped over Satar’s head. He nearly kicked it but stopped when he saw the face. A most peculiar look was upon that face, one of surprise, yes, but there was also satisfaction. Surely the man was insane for he found joy in his own destruction. Darkon left the head unmolested and recalled his promise to the Che’burr that he would bring them back that very head. He then knelt beside Galen. He felt for a heartbeat and found it was still there, weakened indeed, but his friend would live.
As he prepared a dose of the Salve of Noor Graton came down from the window and joined him. The elf relayed to him what had occurred but omitted the part where he aided the outmatched prince. Ralac moaned behind them as he painfully regained consciousness and they both moved to his side and inspected his head wound. Blood trickled from the assassin’s ears and nose when he tried to sit up. A wave of nausea sent him back down and his skull began to throb as if it were about to come apart. He screamed in pain.
Darkon knew his injuries were internal and only the salve could help him now.
After administering the salve, slowly the blood stopped flowing and the pounding subsided and Ralac finally sat up and smiled. “My thanks, Darkon. How fares Galen?”
Galen himself was rising unsteadily but he was whole. “I yet live.” He said. “Though I think only because the god’s themselves willed it!”
Nearby, Graton hid his smile and said nothing.
Darkon truly understood that statement and said, “Praise Anghar, my friend, for he watches over all who do battle. It was he that saved me before I came out of that demon hole in the wall.”
“I know not of your gods Darkon but if he was watching over us then praise him indeed!” The prince replied.
It wasn’t long before the four men rejoined Gemini near the courtyard outside the palace. The mage sat calmly by a huge pool that was covered in a dense, steamy fog. It was obvious the fog was magical in nature for it never drifted and was perfectly coalesced about the pool’s basin.
Before Galen could ask, Tam held his hand toward the fog and said, “Your parents are within as is your lovely sister. They are bathing in the pool and citizens have already delivered new garments for them.”
Galen nodded and thanked Gemini, staring into the dense mist. “You’re family seems very well loved here in Mastalon, my friend.” Gemini added.
Galen smiled and replied, “We are. My father has always had the poor among our people first in mind.”
Galen was still smiling when his father briskly stepped from the fog, strode purposely to Galen and solidly slapped him across the face.
Pain blurred his vision but his father’s voice rang quite clear. “Foolish whelp! You dare speak of me as if you were proud? You who would rather abandon your responsibilities than face them like a man?”
King Garrold Mastalon was a strong, tall, imposing man. His hair was cut squarely about his shoulders and his skin was paling to resemble the gray of his tresses. The man could not have been over fifty but his face said he was older than that. Apparently, Graton pondered, being king was not easy on a human body nor was being imprisoned in a dungeon.
“If you thought you were going to get a hero’s welcome boy, you were wrong! If you think I will utter even the smallest thanks for your efforts to free us, again, you are wrong!” Again the king raised his hand as if to slap the prince but this time he was halted.
Suddenly standing protectively between the king and his son was the aging but beautiful queen.
With King Garrold’s wrist in her deceptively strong grasp she said, “Stop this! He is our son and he has come home!”
The king looked down at his wife and his eyes grew round as he realized she was completely nude. Even at the age of forty eight her tall and shapely form was enough to impress and embarrass all the men who witnessed her nakedness. Body glistening from the mist and dark hair plastered to her lithe backside she could have very well passed for Galen’s sister. That is, without considering her confident tone and the command she apparently had over the king.
When his surprise lessened the king took his cape from his broad back and threw it about his beloved wife’s shoulders, which she accepted gratefully. She then stepped forward and melted her diminutive form with her husband’s in an embrace one would expect was reserved for young lovers alone. Galen stood quietly before the loving pair, head down, hands folded behind his back.
Gemini smiled and whispered to a leering Ralac, “The prince’s most practiced pose. One he has learned since before he could walk.”
Indeed, it did seem that Galen had been in uncomfortable proximity when his parents displayed their affections for one another many times before. Slowly, another small figure stepped from the thick fog and stood beside him. She was barely as tall as his shoulders and petite would not nearly explain her diminutive features. Her hair was a chestnut brown and hung straight and soaked right down to her ankles. Proportioned to perfection her slim round hips accentuated the fullness of her bosom. Skin colored a smooth olive just like her mothers, her smile gave every man a frightful start. Frightful because no man, once bearing witness to this regal princess, would dare think himself worthy of her affection. No. Nor even her smile.
As she stood patiently beside her battered and bloodied brother, tightly holding his much larger hand, she looked over his likewise battle worn friends. From the pleasant elven mage, Gemini, and his youthful one eyed companion, Ralac, to a seemingly nervous elven warrior who wore the legendary griffon sigil upon his armor, and not to mention the filthy, blood caked, savage looking warrior, Darkon. As she donned her brother’s bloody cloak she gave all of them an honest appraisal.
“Father, I disagree. If Galen had not left us he would not have been able to return with this motley band of heroes. He would not have saved us and we would all likely have been dead by now. You must forgive him for are we not together again? ”
The king took in every word and pondered them for a moment before he again looked to his son. When he did, Galen winced as if expecting another blow or more harsh words. None came.
“My son,” The king began, “You’re sister speaks wisely, as usual. Things have indeed worked out for the best. I will not hold your actions against you for surely the gods had some hand in this.” The proud king stepped forward and grasped his son’s shoulder with tears in his eyes and said, “I have missed you, my son.”
Galen in turn clasped his fathers shoulder and said, “And I you, father.”

^ ^ ^

“King Garrold is said to be healthier now than he has been in years!” The old servant said cheerily to another. Beckayn had served the royal family since her coming of age and had seen all the various stages of health and mood of her king.
“Indeed he is.” Answered her friend and fellow longtime servant, Juarna. “Why, the other day I saw him playing roughly with several of the servant’s children!”
“Yes, and it is good to have the queen and princess back to their old forms again. It was getting so dull around here without those two throwing a celebration every tenday or so!” Said Beckayn.
“Oh and the prince has gotten to be so handsome, hasn’t he? Lot of good that running off did him too. My husband says he’s a much better man for it now.”
“Yes,” Said Beckayn in whispered breath, “We would be some monster’s dinner or a madman’s footstool if he hadn’t.”
Both women shuddered at the thought for each had friends who had met those very fates.
Much of the palace of Mastalon was in very similar discussion. Only three weeks had passed since Satar was thrown down but much of everyday life had been put back to where they wanted it. The old guard had been reissued their duties and this very day the traitor mage, Par-Than, would be burned alive. The king saved the execution for when his people would have the time and heart to witness it.
In the outer courtyard, several hundred eagerly awaited the burning. Overlooking the scene from the palace was a large balcony. From there the royal family waved to the citizens and by giving reassuring, confident smiles to them as they watched they inspired the tired people to have hope. Hope that the kingdom would soon return to its solid state and no madman would ever dare attempt usurpation again. Usually on an occasion like this several veteran warriors would flank the royal family but today only the heroes of Mastalon stood watch by their sides. Prince Galen and his friends watched grimly as the executioner and a handful of guards escorted the mage to the huge woodpile and pole he would be burned upon.
Ralac had seen ceremonies such as this more times than he cared to recall and although he knew Par-Than deserved his fate he could not stop the shiver that ran down his spine. He understood very well that his life could have very easily ended in a like manner if he hadn’t made the pivotal decision to not be like those that fostered and 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 wrong with you?” Kirstana yelled. “You could have killed him!”
She stood then and pointed in Darkon’s face even as his muscles spasmed and his face reflected a fearful anger. He almost did kill Treacor, he realized! For what? Insulting his friends or questioning their loyalty? That was when he realized how much he cared for his friends. They weren’t his people, no, but they had proven themselves trustworthy and capable many times over. He would not leave Genossia without them.
Slowly he looked away from the scolding priestess and walked toward the fallen ranger. He reached down, brushing by protective Sirsi’, and hoisted the cynical ranger to his feet.
Heartily he clapped the breathless man on the back and said, “Accept my apology, Treacor. I defend them as I would you or any of my true kin. You see, for some time they were all I had and all I trusted and I cannot allow anyone to question that. Take heart in knowing, all of you, that these friends of mine are a powerful and smart bunch. With them at our sides our success is assured!”
Even Treacor said nothing to that and Slaytor merely smiled. The confidence Darkon spoke with somehow instilled his brethren with an understanding they had earlier lacked and as he sat again by the fire and began telling the tale of he and his comrades they soon felt pride as well. They soon learned that the four outsiders were in spirit as Demonslayers themselves. Sirsi’ wept with joy. Unknowingly she realized Darkon had shown them all the way. His friends had been true adventurers long before he met them and they would remain so if he left their sides. Across the lands there must be more folk like them, folk who thought like Demonslayers yet knew not what a Demonslayer was. It was these folk who could rejuvenate a kingdom and would happily take up a worthy cause.
Sirsi’ stood up, tears of revelation in her eyes, and she echoed those thoughts with words and her brethren agreed. They then decided they would take a new path in returning to Slayaria. One that would take them across kingdoms and lands they had before now avoided. They would tell the tale’s of the Demonslayers across Europa and soon every commoner would be repeating those tales and over time they would reach the kindred adventurers that lived throughout the lands. Then, after a time, the bravest and wisest would seek the fabled city of Slayaria and the land called Brimstone that hid it. When they found it they would find the waiting last remnants of a people created to protect the mortal realm. They would admire it and wish to become a part of it and, perhaps, the Demonslayers would indeed be reborn.

^ ^ ^

Graton Griffon lord sat atop a parapet upon the easternmost wall of Mastalon. He looked toward the stars and talked as he had done many nights before. He talked not to himself or the stars as passing guards often suspected. He spoke to Merleptus. Graton had waited until things had settled down in Mastalon before using the mage’s keyword, “Scintillation.” When he did the mage was overjoyed at the now open channel of communication and he quickly took advantage of it.
The elven warrior mage and the human wizard had been discussing the prospect of working together in a joint venture. One that would benefit both the Griffon lord’s people in Ara’moor and the human’s constant search for new magical rituals, spells, and curiosities. They had both agreed that the Demonslayer people were gone and their ways would soon be forgotten and they agreed that there were still uses the Demonslayer mystical legacies could be put to.
For instance, Graton pondered the Demonslayer’s ability to hide their homeland’s location. They had been found in the end but only through treachery. His own people had been trying to hide from the teeming human population for some time without success. Centuries of constant exodus and resettling had led to a much less fey elven folk. Through the cruelties dealt to them they had acquired some very human traits, including paranoia. By discovering the Demonslayer secrets he could aid his kind in their most dire hour.
Merleptus was interested in Demonslayer lore for more selfish reasons. Disappointed at his apparent inability to utilize the Scepter of Fire he continued on in his quest to gather all of the world’s most powerful relics. To Graton, aiding one power hungry human to hide his people from the rest was a simple and easy decision. Knowing his friends would not understand, in particular Darkon, Graton did not tell them he was leaving. Instead he sent a message carrier to alert them and give them a letter of explanation that they would not receive until he was gone.
Besides, perhaps his friends would reach Slayaria soon after he did and they would reunite their company in the name of his cause, the cause of the elven people. They, at least, still had a chance of being saved and the prospect seemed much more likely than a whole race being somehow restored. Thus elven pragmatism won out over simple loyalty and Merleptus once again won himself a willing pawn.

^ ^ ^

“Son, you are still needed here!” King Mastalon angrily exclaimed. The king and his son sat alone, deep in the halls of the palace and argued just like old times.
“Father, please, you yet have many years left and Brie’shanna will make a fine regent when you travel.” The king nearly retorted but Galen continued too quickly. “She knows far more than I about politics and she has far more knowledge about the needs of the kingdom. My absence has distanced me from some of the people who still blame me for Satar’s infiltration.”
Galen did not mention that he felt those people might be right. How could anyone say what would have taken place if he had not left home years ago? The king’s face was bright red but words would not form in his mind. He could no longer argue his point for Galen was right. Brie had indeed grown into an intelligent, level headed woman, so much like her mother.
“Galen, I have missed you and I will miss you. I have always only wanted my son to stand at my side as I rule the lands of our ancestors.” The King admitted.
Galen’s face turned red. Not with anger or embarrassment, but with surprise. Never, since he had been six winters old, had he heard his gruff father exclaim his feelings to anyone but his wife, the queen.
Galen could only stand up, with tears in his eyes, and place a firm grip upon his father’s shoulder and say, “And I will miss you father, but I will return. I will return with new tales of glory for my father to be proud of. How could a king be proud of a son who never left home to become a man?”
Beard wet with tears, King Garrold stood and returned Galen’s shoulder clasp and said, “Go then, my son, make me proud!”
For a long moment the two strong, stubborn and prideful men stared fiercely into one another’s eyes. These two would come together again and be the family they were meant to be and nothing on Earth could possibly stop that.
When the queen heard Galen had departed once again she wept. She wept until the king whispered to her softly and cuddled her against him. She stopped weeping when she heard of her son’s promise to return and his dedication to making his family proud. She looked at the great king she loved so much and knew then that no son of this man would ever break such a promise.
Not far away Brie’shanna too battled with her emotions. How dare her brother leave now, there was so much he hadn’t told her! How dare he leave her alone, after all she’d been through? She was angry with Galen, but she understood nevertheless. Galen would not be satisfied until their father was full of pride for him. She looked on her finger at the ring Ralac had returned to her weeks ago. It had been created by Par-Than for her. She wanted to find her brother then, so the mage made it so she could call to Galen with her thoughts and relay a few words. She had been about to use it when Satar’s men found her in her room. It could only be used once thus she treasured the ring above all her mundane jewels. If the need arose again she would not hesitate to use it and for their family’s sake she hoped Galen’s friends would help him get home again. She suspected they would and unlike the rest of Genossia, she was not so sure these troubled times were over quite yet.

^ ^ ^

Ralac and Gemini sat alone at the Roasting Boar inn. Both men stared into the hearth flames and pondered their next move. Around them, a celebration was going on. Off duty guards, tired travelers, and happy locals all rejoiced over the burning of wicked Par-Than. It had been seen as a cleansing ceremony by most of them, one that signified the total downfall of Satar. As long as Par-Than lived they had felt insecure and vulnerable, no matter that the prince and his allies were returned and victorious. Now, they imbibed heavy tankards of mead and toasted the heroes, one and all. Ralac and Gemini were magically disguised so they would not be the focus of those hearty toasts. They came to the inn to privately discuss their fates.
“I am very intrigued with the prospect of going to the legendary lands of Brimstone to rediscover Slayaria.” Gemini said.
“I too am looking forward to the adventure that is sure to come, but I still must ask you. In following these others do we not forsake our own destiny or do we simply forestall it?” Ralac asked.
Gemini smiled. He was still impressed with the depth of thought this human assassin showed. The elf had never expected the question nor had he thought of it. To him, his destiny was to travel the land and discover all he could for the benefit of his own learning and secondly that of his people. Humans, he realized, had much less time to waste. Thus Ralac was more concerned with where his own true destiny lie, not with simple learning.
“I find that you are a capable and strong man, friend Ralac. I have no doubt that no matter where you find your feet your destiny will be right before you.” Offered Gemini.
Ralac nodded his head slowly in understanding and said, “Besides, what home have I? Is not the road my haven, the night my hearth? Wherever my feet lead me then, and not to mention the kindly, ever intriguing Sirsi’.”
Gemini smiled wide this time. Ralac had shown an immediate fondness for the young priestess. He understood why of course. It had been obvious by her strength of mind and body that she was worthy of respect. Yet, it may have been her mothering demeanor that attracted the assassin most of all. Of course Ralac would never understand that for he surely only somewhat recalled his own mother. For that reason alone Gemini could not say anything to the one eyed mischief maker that would sway his opinion. All men loved their mother and those who knew them not would love any woman who resembled in their mind’s what they lacked as a youth. Sirsi’s strong features and full figure were yet another part of the enticement, the only part Ralac would admit to.
Indeed, these two men would follow the Demonslayers, but in truth they were following their hearts.

^ ^ ^

Far north of Genossia traveled the rest of the Demonslayers and their mentors, Krosten and Cann-Dar. For the most part the group kept their distance from any strangers or towns they passed along the way. It was as they entered the dark forest of pines and black oak in the land called Germania when a brown winged falcon hopped from a tree limb and onto Krosten’s shoulder. Though everyone else was surprised he seemed to have expected it. After several moments of exchanging chirps, screeches and calls, the high priest finally smiled and turned to his charges who had been looking on in wonderment.
“Kirstana and the others have found Darkon. They’ll be heading north to join us.” He said.
The mute, Rax, clapped to express his joy and the others began to pepper Krosten with questions.
Calmly, he continued, “I have very little details except this...” He waited a moment for quiet to return. “Darkon and his friends, whomever they may be, have become heroes in Genossia. Sirsi’ tells me they have realized how to bring about the return of our lost people and it involves not avoiding every village and every stranger as I have instructed. Instead it involves crossing every path to every town or country and spreading the tales of the Demonslayers. Through inspiring adventurous souls with heroic tales and deeds they believe we may lure those souls to Slayaria where they can be brought into the fold.”
The looks on his charges’ faces told him they believed as well. Krosten believed but he had his doubts. If they were to spread word of their people now the danger of being attacked or hunted again would grow tenfold. Worse yet, if this group began to follow suit now Sirsi’ and the others could walk into the waiting arms of some dark servant. He knew he must hold back his party’s efforts until the others could rejoin them. Until then they would have to establish a temporary home of some sort. In the wild forest they traveled through now they could hide for the next several weeks but they would need supplies from somewhere eventually.
Thus Krosten turned the group back, toward the last lonely wilderness village they had seen. There he purchased a small cabin that had been vacant for some time. The man he bought it from was Heltenar the innkeeper. Heltenar was the local facsimile of a lord and he claimed ownership of any of the homes that were vacated or any goods that someone might leave behind. He admitted that any folk that came here to live usually left before a year passed and often left behind their untransportable property. The village had been unceremoniously named Heltenar due to the innkeeper’s self-appointed position as leader and caretaker.
Once the young Demonslayer’s were settled and they each finished their specific tasks or errands about the tiny, eight building, village, Krosten spoke to them again.
“All of you must heed this old priest’s words and heed them well. While all of you remain here awaiting our brethren I must continue on to Slayaria. Cann-Dar and Slaytor both know the way and they will advise you during my absence.”
Immediately the protests arose. Every one of the young slayers cared deeply for Krosten and none of them realized the man’s true power. The questions like, “Who will watch your back?” and, “Who will take care of you?”, made the old man smile. He knew they loved him as he did them but they were foolish to think he could not care for himself. They were also wrong in thinking the priest did not sense their own fear of his departing. He had guided them this far and without him they worried they might be lost.
“I will be fine, my children. Cann-Dar?” Krosten looked to the elf and raised both arms to either side as if preparing to take flight with his all enveloping robes. The serene looking elf answered with a few elven syllables and gestures, casting a spell on the priest.
For a moment nothing occurred and Krosten grinned wide and said, “I’ll be seeing you all and then to our destinies we will go!”
Suddenly Krosten’s form shrank and reconstructed itself and there was a gray hawk where he’d been standing. After one piercing call the bird of prey took flight and lifted itself above the tall pines and disappeared from sight. Beside it the brown falcon quickly caught up and the two said their final goodbye with an air shredding screech. The gathered children of a lost people stood watching the sky for some time. None of them felt comfortable in these woods although uncle Cann-Dar was still with them.
Kirstana’s sister, Clarrissa, looked to the elf and said, “Will we ever see him again?”
The elven mage expected the question and answered with calm confidence. “Of course! He will return with vital information about Slayaria.”
Clarrissa’s full, red lips pouted, accentuated by her long, shining black hair and parchment pale skin. Tall for a woman she reached six feet in height and her long lean legs were a match for any Cann-Dar had ever seen. In his centuries of life, of course, he had seen plenty.
“Dear Clarrissa,” He said. “Fear not. In about three months when winter is nearly here your sister will return and share her tales. You won’t have missed anything she can’t fill you in on.” The elf had not forgotten the sibling rivalry between the sisters and he knew Clarrissa was envious of Kirstana’s journey south.
Unlike Kirstana, Clarrissa was a mage. She had automatically chosen an opposite profession from her sister even though separate families had fostered them. Cann-Dar smiled as he thought of Krosten’s telling of how the two reacted when they were reunited. Kirstana would not acknowledge she had a sister, although Krosten returned to her fully her memory, and Clarrissa had attempted to rip Kirstana’s hair out claiming she was some demonic imposter and that Krosten should dispose of her at once!
Behind Cann-Dar stood Dharmone’, who had been listening attentively to his every word. The tall, strong, righteous young warrior of Halren had little patience for waiting but he normally followed his mentor’s instruction.
Clearing his throat to announce his presence he said, “Cann-Dar, exactly what are we supposed to do for three months in this forsaken place?”
Cann-Dar stopped smiling then and looked back to where Krosten had flown from sight. Every single young slayer awaited his answer with baited breath and he felt sorry that he had only one simple answer. “We will do as the Demonslayers have always done, my young friend’s. We will survive.”
Seeing they were not going to get a better reply the five eager Demonslayers turned toward the cabin that was to be their temporary home. Noting the age and stage of development of the young ones Cann-Dar decided that it might be best if he procured another of the empty cabins. Humans, he knew, were often prone to boredom and throughout history boredom among their kind had led to foolish decisions. The race needed to grow but pregnant women would only be a hindrance at present. Positive Krosten would agree with him Cann-Dar called after the dejected group and told them who would be staying where and who would be staying in the same cabin. Inwardly Cann-Dar hoped Krosten would not be to long, watching over near grown Slayarians did not promise to be an easy task.


CHAPTER 27
SEEDS OF THE ABYSS


“He is my least favorite manifestation, Anghar.”
“Unfortunately, my friend, my brother, he is the most pivotal to our cause and is one who is necessary for the Demonslayer’s survival.” Anghar calmly retorted.
“Ironic is it not?” Asked Throngaer, thunder clapping at his every word.
“Indeed. One of the single most important aspects of the Demonslayers is a veritable demon in itself.”
Together the gods stood upon a windy mountaintop somewhere in the Abyss. They looked not at the sky or abyssal horizon but at the cave mouth that lie just below the mountain peak. The wind blew gusts of rain while lightning lit the sky, all telling that this mountain must lie within the domain of the storm god. Unshaken by the torrent, Anghar’s form grew larger and larger as the rain quickly froze around him and added to his garments of ice and armor. Beside him Throngaer stood even taller. His golden armor mirrored each lightning strike like water across a window pane. His long white hair writhed from beneath his one horned helm as if of a mind of its own. His blue eyes were hurricanes not yet born and his grimace seemed to threaten of doom.
The manifestation they spoke of was one of the several that represented a specific emotional state. Though every one was a servant to Throngaer, not always did they do as they were commanded. That was the reason this one had been imprisoned soon after the fall of Slayaria. A few more moments passed until a pair of eyes reflecting the lightning appeared in the darkness of the cave opening. Neither god reacted in any way, instead they only looked on as a voice strained to be heard above the frightening din.
“A hundred years has passed quickly, master.” It said.
“Far less than that has gone by, cursed one. Come now, crawl out of your prison so you may receive the latest of my commands.” Throngaer stood tall, golden armor dancing with electricity. His one horned helm, encircled by a miniature thundercloud, added to his already awe inspiring visage.
A dark shape slowly began to creep from the cave depths, all the while kowtowing and groveling toward the awesome storm god and his equally frightening brethren god. The creature was gaunt and wretched. Its gleaming ebony skin had sunken in many places where muscle must have once been. His head was crested by a set of oxen horns and rags adorned what was left of his body. Human in most of its features its fingers and toes ended in wicked but useless claws. As the cursed manifestation hobbled forward, barely able to lift its horn encumbered head, the storm god spoke.
“Your punishment will be ended now and your crimes forgotten. None will know of your treachery but the god’s themselves and you will continue your duties understanding that if any further crimes are committed against the Slayarians by you, you will be replaced, unmercifully!”
The aspect’s eyes belied his surprise. Never had he dreamed Throngaer would relinquish his punishment, let alone allow him to continue with his duties. A new image of his lord, master and god would he forever foster in his mind. Yet he kept his mind empty for Throngaer would know every thought.
Holding a gauntlet over the creature’s head, Throngaer then said, “I now return to you you’re power and title. Once again you are…Hatred.”
A stream of energy coalesced around the withered form of Hatred as he howled in both pain and delight. Quickly his frame began to return to its old shape and muscles rebuilt themselves where they once were dead. His form was nearly eight feet in height and muscled like a hardened warrior’s. The red, burning fire returned to his eyes, as did the sneer upon his lips.
“You are the necessary evil. The Demonslayers are a force for good yet even they are subject to hatred. They’re blinding hate for demon kind has ever been a weakness, as well as an advantage. Now, as they seek to return to power they will need avarice to fire their souls and remind them of who they are.”
Hatred had lowered to his knees, humbled by the mercy, wisdom and confidence of his lord. He knew that to retain his position among the emotional manifestations he would have to make Throngaer proud. Silently he pledged to his master that he would do nothing else and Throngaer acknowledged that pledge with an imperceptible nod.
“Go then, Hatred. Remind the Demonslayers why they exist.”
With a malicious grin, Hatred disappeared, leaving two gods to contemplate their actions.
“Ironic is it not?” Throngaer asked a final time.
“Indeed.” Anghar grimly replied.

^ ^ ^

Calic-Matar sat contemplating his future. In his retaken level of the Abyss he sat upon a human skull throne overlooking his precious Soul Vaults. The vaults gleamed and hummed as he uttered the occasional command word. The countless runes flashed endlessly in arcane patterns that would be incomprehensible to all but the mightiest of demon lords but Calic was no simple demon and he had mastered the vault millennia ago.
A sudden yelp attracted his attention from beside his throne.
“Gnnnneeeeagck! What was dat?” Whimpered the imp, Sniffaro.
Calic-Matar’s expression looked as if it were carved from stone as he replied, “That was a wave of terror, imp, meant for every demonic denizen of the Abyss.”
“Every…den you felt dat to?” It asked.
“I did.”
“What’s dat big dat can scare you? Or even everyting in de Abyss?” The pest questioned anything that could do such an improbable thing. Everyone, mortal or not, knew that demons were unaffected by fear.
Having read Sniffaro’s thought’s Calic replied. “Demons do not know fear as mortals do, that is true. Still, any creature has survival instincts and when it is announced that hatred has been rekindled in the hearts of Demonslayers, demons know their own form of fear.”
“I thought all o’da slayer’s was dead except dat one you been watchin’.” Whined the pest.
“I was unaware of any others but if Hatred has been released then we must assume the war is not over. Also, if Terror has aligned with Hatred then we must assume the gods and their thrice cursed servants will be taking a more direct hand in future events.”
“What do we do, master?” Asked the trembling imp.
“We will watch and wait for the best opportunity to strike. If we can eliminate the last vestiges of the Slayarians and hold their rotting corpses up for the other demon lords to see they will have no choice but to make me their master. Then the gods themselves will learn the folly of resisting Calic-Matar as the united hordes bring this timeless war to their very realms”
Calic was nothing if not bold. Ages ago he had very nearly united the entire Abyss full of demons for just such an attack. He was unsuccessful but none had ever come closer to achieving that dream. If the gods had anything to fear it was the Matar’s charisma and ability to punish his fellows into submission.
Sudden silence stopped the conversation as the Soul Vault completed its most recent creation. Perched upon Calic’s huge shoulder Sniffaro wrung his hands in anticipation. The imp had a great part in its creation for it was he that acquired all the needed pieces for his master’s newest servant. First, there was a remnant of the human called Bele’, a loyal warrior to the end and as close to being a bear as he was to being human. Second there was a part of the unrecovered remains of Dardiax the Darkbringer. Third there was a white bear’s cub, thrown in the vaults whole and alive, bestowing the creation with the keen senses of an earthly creature and the needed lifeforce that was pivotal for any creation born of the soul vaults.
Calic spoke a word that dripped with evil, the word that would open the main vault door while a sour vapor hissed from the other adjoining chambers. Slowly, the door made from a dark otherworldly metal hissed open, revealing a unique demon.
With the head of a great white bear it roared its joy at being released. The vault’s magic kept the living subject of its perversion of life awake and aware during the transformations. The mental energy of its agony was twisted to become the catalyst for the merging of the components. This demonic creation stood nearly ten feet tall and its torso was covered in fur and scales. Everywhere there was a joint in its body, knuckles, spine, knees, even upon its thick neck, long spikes jutted outward menacingly. It was powerfully muscled and plenty capable of decapitating three men with one swipe of its massive bear claws. Fearsome though the beast was perhaps more frightening was the cunning look in its eyes. This was not just another snarling, savage demon.
“What am I?” It asked its creator in a booming growl.
“You are the first of my children and you shall be called, Bor'slovahn.”
The creature roared out its own name, announcing to the Abyss and beyond that a new hunter had entered the fray. It knew by instinct that it was created to hunt but not what it was going to be hunting. Calic listened to its thoughts and smiled as its natural intellect led it to the answers it sought.
“You will hunt Demonslayers upon the mortal realm. Vanquish all you find and bring me their corpses.”
Bor'slovahn caught the scent as the words were spoken yet it didn’t know how to cross from the Abyss to the mortal realm.
Sniffaro sensed its confusion and sympathized, “But master, demons can’t cross over unless dey’re summoned. Can dey?”
“Yes, but mighty Bor'slovahn is also mortal. The human remains you brought to me will cancel that particular restriction forthwith. All that needs to be done now is for him to step through the gateway I have placed here. Thanks to the meddling Dardiax and his fondness for mortals the means was available to me.”
With a click of a forefinger and thumb the dreaded demon lord revealed a gateway in the very fabric of reality. A hundred of the least of demon kind had been sacrificed to Calic-Matar in order to grant him the ability to open such a gateway. Soon he would, through the knowledge Dardiax had been in the process of gathering, soon be able to do the same for full demons. The portal radiated a blue glow and a breeze that smelled of daisies wafted from it toward Bor'slovahn. The newborn demon immediately headed for the gate and after bowing deeply to its creator turned around and walked through. The gateway then disappeared, leaving the lord and his imp in blackness.
“Gnneaghck! What do we do now, master?” The imp asked.
“We do as demons have always done, we wait for the chance to kill our foes and subjugate our allies.”

^ ^ ^

West of Samaria and north of the lands of the Greeks and nomadic Slav’s, the wilderness within Germania was home to several bands of lawless men. Many of those bands were motivated by greed alone but a few of the others had a more sinister cause. One such group was led by a shaman of the demon lord known foremost as the Darkbringer. His name was Kel’nart and he had been servant to Dardiax since before evil had swarmed over Slayaria and sent the ancient opposer's into what they thought would be extinction. Kel’nart had been satisfied over the victory but the cost had been high.
The Slayarians, even when betrayed from within, were no easy victims. For every Demonslayer killed, three of the attacking army had been slain as well. The evil army bent on the domination of all of Europa through the defeat of hidden Slayaria had been made weak and incapable of dominating even a small country. Afterward the forces scattered under the constant harassment of elves, dwarves and fearie, who were enraged at the slaughter of their longtime allies. Kel’nart took what men he could gather and scurried into the depths of the mostly unpopulated forests of Germania.
Thirteen years later Kel’nart’s supernatural power had grown but his small army had dwindled. Roughly only two score men yet lived to serve the Darkbringer’s will under his guidance and those men were growing old. He knew that if he was going to utilize these men’s skills as warriors he must do so soon. The men themselves agreed unanimously that to die in battle was preferable over old age or some incurable ailment. In truth, the shaman cared little for his loyal warriors, for such was the teaching of Dardiax. When there were no more men left to carry out his commands the dark servant would use his power to lure young men away from their homes and into his cult. With the promise of wealth and wenches, all of which would be stolen from villages and settlements, he would rebuild his following. Of that he was confident.
In preparation for the coming time of battle the followers of Dardiax the Darkbringer reveled in a decadent celebration. Several not so young women, nude and painted in goat’s blood, took turns dancing for and pleasing the men. Hollow log’s, used as drums, and shabbily made lyre’s played a discordant tune which increased the euphoria all the participants were experiencing. Kel’nart had given the women an herb which would make them willing and enthusiastic where they once had been unwilling slaves. The men had been drinking ale they had concocted which often made them as sick as they were drunk. He remained detached and unmoved by the gyrating, voluptuous women. His mind must always remain clear for at any moment his dark master could enter his mind and impart some important advice as a vision. Inebriated, a vision could be dismissed unintentionally as a hallucination. The Darkbringer would not be amused. The shaman was also unmoved when one of the women was slain by one of his four personal guards for nothing more than spilling some ale. It hardly mattered since all of the women were to be sacrificed at dawn. The two chosen to survive had not been given the mind clouding herb since they were needed to care for their children. Each woman had been unwillingly impregnated by Kel’nart himself the shaman’s only true concern was that the babes survive until they to could be sacrificed. Dardiax was a demanding patron.
Some time during the midpoint of the night’s chaos Kel’nart received the vision he had been hoping for. In his mind he heard the not so subtle demand for his attention as a vision most vile and cruel appeared to his mind’s eye. The shaman saw himself standing over a pyre upon which were cast the living bodies of the women his men currently were abusing. Standing amidst the burning flesh and bone was his strongest warrior willingly sacrificing himself for his master. Through this sacrifice Kel’nart sensed that his and their places among the Darkbringer’s favorites would be assured. Never mind the eternal torment they would find. They would be satisfied with the rewards of the mortal realm that his master had assured him. Nothing short of Dardiax being dethroned in the Abyss would take that away.
At dawn Kel’nart shook his men awake one by one, some of them still in the embrace of one of the unsuspecting women. Without complaint the men gathered away from the camp and listened to their leader’s commands. Many of the warriors grew angry when they heard about the shaman’s plans to burn the wenches but still none would disobey him. At least not when he held the favor of Dardiax.
It wasn’t long before all of the poor women were knocked unconscious and heaped upon the main fire. Fourteen women were unceremoniously burned alive. It was so horrid a sight most of the men could not bear to watch, though wicked Kel’nart would not allow them to turn away. The shaman watched his men closely. Near forty bloody and evil men could hardly stand to look as the women they had abused, tortured and raped countless times burned upon the pyre. Weaklings, every one. The shaman had not chosen the warrior who would join the sacrifice for he was unsure which was the strongest. He peered intently at each man’s face, searching for the one who seemed the least affected by the sight before them.
The flames soon roared and the stench made many of the men vomit up the ale they had over consumed the night before. The sounds of gagging and coughing filled the morning’s grim silence and nearly masked the bellowing roar of something unseen. Kel’nart stood up straight and called unsuccessfully for quiet. Wracked with convulsing gullets most of the men could barely stand. Four men though, who had not imbibed as much as the others, started walking through the crowd and shaking awareness into the hung over wretches. They were the chosen bodyguard of Kel’nart and they always commanded respect. So, after a moment, which was too long by his thinking, the weakened warriors scrambled for their weapons.
By the time the chaos was over the shaman was consumed with a mixture of excitement and terror. Then suddenly standing behind and over the burning pile of bodies was a fearsome creature beyond anything he had ever imagined. As tall as nearly two men it had a white furred bear head and spikes jutted from its every joint. Its body was muscled like an ogrish monster, and its hands were massive, unstoppable bear claws.
Nearly speechless Kel’nart fell to his knees and swore, “By the Darkbringer what power is this?”
The creature was unmoved and seemed to smile but that would be impossible since it was hindered with bear features. It took one long step toward the groveling shaman and was attacked by one of Kel’nart’s bodyguards. Clearly that man was the bravest or at least the most loyal since the rest of the men had already fled. The demon, Bor’slovahn as he was named by his maker, backhanded the offending mortal and catapulted the fool directly into the crackling pyre. The man could not scream for his upper torso had been mangled completely by the casual swing. His death had already arrived before his flesh was consumed. Then arose that terrible voice.
“Mortal servant, hear the words of Bor’slovahn!” Bellowed the demon. Kel’nart was stunned and amazed, unable to even move under the cunning gaze of the fearsome monster.
“Demonslayers yet exist, the vigil must begin again. This forest is yours to watch, human, Bor’slovahn will hunt beyond it. Fail and die, succeed and be rewarded!” Upon uttering that final sentence the demon turned around and began his fated hunt.
Kel’nart could not move until Bor’slovahn was out of sight. Screams told him that the demon had found some of his cowardly men and he could only shake his head wryly. The Darkbringer must be strong indeed if a creature such as that one served him. Of course, Kel’nart was still able to channel the power of Dardiax so he was not aware that his dark lord had been cast down. Thanks in part to a Demonslayer no less.
The sizzle of burning flesh drew the shaman’s gaze and again Kel’nart praised his master. He had been torn over which of his men to use to complete the sacrifice but the demonic intrusion had saved him from having to do so. He knew that his men did not relish the thought of sacrificing one of their own. Bad enough their playthings had been taken away from them but one of their lifelong comrades would have been too much to bear even for they’re evil souls.
The spiked demon had spoken of the cursed Demonslayers as if they still existed. Kel’nart had been there at the attack on Slayaria and he thought differently. Ever since that day cultists had been keeping they’re wicked watch over the lands, waiting for any sign of the Demonslayers. There had been none. Even far to the east the Demonslayers had been destroyed and any sign of them buried. It could have been possible that a few slayers were wandering the Abyss during the attack and had no idea about it but without their brethren to open the way for them in the mortal realm those stragglers would have been trapped in the dark realm. Surely, Kel’nart thought to himself as he prepared to rally his warriors, Dardiax laid a simple path before him. Let any lone Demonslayer wander too close to Kel’nart’s purveyance. His power was strong and his men bloodthirsty. “Let any foolish Slayarian beware…”, swore Kel’nart, lackey of demon kind.


CHAPTER 28
THE PIECES IN PLACE


Anghar heard the thoughts of the evil shaman as he watched him through his favorite shield. He also witnessed Bor’slovahn quietly stalking through the Germanic timberland. The god of battle could only smile to himself as he wondered how his favored Demonslayer would react to this new demon.
Anghar suspected Darkon's thirst for vengeance over the death of his beloved Sevele would manifest and Halren would fuel the young warrior’s rage. Bor’slovahn would undoubtedly be a deadly foe but Demonslayers were born to destroy such foes. As far as the god of battle and cold was concerned, things were going according to his godly design. Darkon grew wiser and his growing band of allies had been showing great potential as future slayers.
Still, there were many tests yet to come for all of the remaining Demonslayers. The ancient relics of ceremony, initiation and protection had to be returned to Slayaria and its populace restored. All of this had to be done before the Unifier began his long foretold Earth cleansing. Though the mortals of Earth were born from the gods and gods were born of the very essence of life, Gaea, demon kind still clung maniacally to the idea that the Earth was theirs. Once a peace loving people they had been twisted irrevocably by the elder sorcery that reshaped them before life even began on Earth. The three fates of Asgaard had ages ago foreseen the coming of the unifier and his evil efforts to retake the world. They would not reveal the outcome of the demon’s war to anyone but did say that fate could only be changed by the gods. Already the course of events had been changed though, when Krosten had been instructed to order the clans to choose a favored child to be sent to safety. Some clans went as far as to send two children in hopes that their clan would be someday reborn.
Aeleostrimine, the Slayarian goddess of nature and change, smiled upon her people that day. By invoking change to the god’s commands they had almost assured some change to the prophecy told by the three fates so long ago. The three sisters, young, middle-aged and old alike bristled at the course of events. They had been proven wrong. Mortals could indeed change fate.
Now though, the gods only looked on and waited for their time. Godly intervention had ever been a rare event but much changed when the fate of an entire race was in question.
Anghar recalled Throngaer’s urgent message to him from a mortal decade before and harrumphed in disdain. The other earthly pantheons frowned upon direct intervention and surely noticed any godly presence upon Earth. Since that was so the other pantheons, including those who had thought they had annihilated Astnalia’s children, were now aware they had not been completely successful. None of the seven direct godchildren knew what to expect from the haughty pantheons but another confrontation seemed inevitable.
Recently Thor, Norse god of thunder, had been sensed storming through the Abyss. Seemingly without purpose the battle hungry son of Odin was causing havoc wherever his course led him.
Anghar had battled Thor long ago when he and his brethren were accused before Gaea. The god of Battle and cold very nearly destroyed the favorite son of Odin single handedly and Thor was surely eager for a chance to restore his honor.
Anghar had no desire to battle any god who was not evil but he knew a second fight with Thor might be to the bitter end. He was god of all things cold as well as battle. That included cold weather, ice and the like of course, but also it meant cold steel and colder hearts. Anghar would, if needed, destroy any god or being that tried to directly interfere with his affairs. With cold logic and an icy stare Anghar would plunge his 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 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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Texte: Joseph m Barnes
Lektorat: Joseph m Barnes
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.04.2012

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