Regis was furious. The plan he had carefully crafted was in ruins. The relationship he had cultivated with the natives was destroyed beyond repair. All just because he had underestimated the tension between his people. He hoped his Second would have some really good excuse for what had happened. Martell should have known better. He should have stomped out this before it reached this point. The leader of the Slayers was in no mood to talk with the head of the guards or the town’s leader. A single glance was enough to stop both men in their tracks as they approached him as he entered through Scoria-Tria’s gate. 

He had come alone with only Seth by his side. Most of the Slayers were instructed to wait for Inney before returning to the town. This might become a moot point if the dust storm coming from the north arrived before them. Regis looked at the dark brown wall once more and cursed under his breath. He had to come up with a new plan and fast. There was no telling how long the storm might last, or what damage it might cause. At first, he had laughed at the idea that some flying sand could pose any danger. That changed when he saw the titanic wall blanket the horizon and strip the flesh from a group of horned men, who planned to raid one of the settlements near Scoria-Erst.

“Seth, go back to the others.” Regis leaned to the man next to him an idea forming in his head. “I want them back here two minutes ago.”

“Sure thing, boss man…”

“You wait for Inney, and if you have time come back too. If not wait out the storm in the jungle.” He interrupted the runner.

Sensing the irritation in his commander’s tone, Seth said nothing and sprinted back through the gate and into the desert. Regis observed him for a moment and walked in the direction of the Slayers’ camp. First, he would whip Martell for failing to enforce the rules. After that, he would skin Vor’s back. He made a note to make it clear to Till that he would not be administrating any wine or numbing herbs to the northerner.

Before he knew it, he was at the small group of buildings allocated to the Slayers. Regis expected angry shouts, perhaps an ongoing beating as the ones he had left behind were venting their anger on Vor. But he did not expect what he was seeing. A slave strapped to a wooden post with Sonya carving out his face. Her emotionless façade cracked, replaced by anger. A few steps behind her stood Sarjak.

The rough-looking man was in the process of washing blood from his hands in a bucket that once was water. The warrior from the Saar Plains had his face twisted in a scowl. His eyes were tracking the other slaves in the same way he used to track Kartha Bulls. For their part, the slaves were quietly sobbing inside an improvised cage, nursing fresh wounds. This far away it was hard to make out, but Regis was certain of it – a lot of fingers were missing. Only two of the wretches were out and about.

One was helping Till sort out the remains of his burned wagon. The old apothecary looked as if he had bitten into spoiled fish. The man snapped as the slave dropped a vial from the pile she was carrying. Without a word he grabbed the staff by his side and struck her in the lower back. Regis could not remember when was the last time he had seen Till of Altstark so angry. Then the damage done to the wagon registered in his mind. The old man’s life-work was gone and with it, all the precious tomes, charms and totems Nadene and Sarduk kept in there for safety. This was a disaster.

The leader of the Slayers had to turn his head, as there was some new commotion to his left. Dominique came crushing through the door of the small communal house tackled by Calder. Kurt and Little Uhr followed them a step behind and made an attempt to tear off the veteran from the youth. With their combined strength they managed to put an end to the brawl.

And then came Martell. He was as dark and gloomy as Regis had ever seen him. The man was like a storm cloud, barking orders as he slammed his fist in Calder’s face before doing the same to Dominique. Tied to a short rope he nearly dragged his slave girl with him. Her usual challenging stare was gone, in its place was fear.

“When I tell you to cut a finger, you ask how many!” Martell bellowed in the greenhorn’s face. “Disobey me again and I’ll be cutting yours. And you,” he faced Calder once more, “were supposed to be patrolling the perimeter!”

“Take them both inside,” Martell ordered Kurt and Little Uhr. 

Without thinking of it, Regis pulled on his leather and iron chest guard making sure it was combat-ready. There was a good chance this was going to get ugly.

“What in the name of Kehetha has happened here?” Regis nearly screamed.

“Vor happened.” The Second answered coldly.

“Walk with me Mar and leave that thing here less I put it down.” The commander hissed through clenched teeth.

Without a word, the warrior pulled out his sword and shoved it into the dusty ground. Expertly he tied the rope around the hilt and gave the girl a warning stare. She lowered her head and gently sat in the dirt. The Second then motioned for his commander to follow him to the barn.

“Talk Mar,” Regis gave his warning as they walked.

“Vor fell on a blade.” The warrior shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing.

“What?!” The commander of the Slayers stopped and faced his subordinate. “I never ordered that…”

“You did not. He, on the other hand, insisted.” Martell shrugged once more. “I warned you he was becoming a problem…”

“And I made you Second so that there are no problems!” Regis yelled.

“And I did! What was I supposed to do? Whip him? Cut a finger? No, Regis. This was going to happen. If not today, tomorrow or the day after that. But it was inevitable. Vor went too far.” Martell yelled back at him.

“Is this all about your little slave over there?” Regis narrowed his eyes and placed a hand on his sword.

“In part, yes.” The Second had no intention of lying or hiding the truth. “More importantly, he did burn Till’s wagon. Killed a dozen of the natives and at least two of the guards…”

“That’s no excuse for an execution without me having a say in it.”

“It was either him or me, Regis. Vor made sure of it.”

“You understand I cannot let this go without a punishment.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand and sighed, realising too late how screwed the relationship between the Slayers had become.

“I will step down as Second…”

“You will do no such thing, you shithead! This is a mess and I need someone with a bit of brain to deal with it!” He said as he shoved his finger into the other man’s chest.

The two entered the barn without any further words. Regis stood for a moment looking at Vor’s spread body. The giant was clearly dead with a knife still sticking out of his throat. His eyes were bloody and glazed, a thick line of blood covered his chin. His death hadn’t been fast. By the looks of it, he had choked before running out of the red fluid.

“We are nineteen now,” Martell spoke softly.

At that, the commander cursed and spat on the floor. Regis, although not particularly religious, did have an obsession with the sacred numbers of the Twenty Dragon Gods. For this reason, he had always kept the number of the Slayers at twenty people. He recruited a new person as fast as he could and even refused to allow them to go in combat if there were nineteen others sworn to him.

“Fuck!” Regis stormed out of the barn.

Cursing and swearing like a drunken sailor he went straight for the tied slave. The poor wretch was still breathing after Sonya had finished peeling off his face. Seeing their leader approach in a foul mood, both she and Sarjak stepped away. Regis stood in front of the slave and began to hammer him with his fists. Through it all, he was screaming and yelling in the incomprehensible dialect of the Ferrex Tribes from which he hailed.

They were hard people to an extreme point and the leader of the mercenaries was no exception. Even though the tribes numbered a total of a thousand people, they were a living legend. Hunters of dragons and beasts, everyone knew of them in the Hester Kingdom. The only subject to be allowed to do as they wanted in exchange for a single flask of dragon’s blood per year.

Their language was a strange mix of hisses, screams and guttural sounds mimicking the voices of the mighty creatures they hunted. A portion of that same might run through their veins. The mercenaries were reminded of that as Regis’s fists hammered the slave accompanied by the sound of splintering bones. It was a good reminder of why they never questioned his orders or why no one had ever challenged him for the command of the Slayers.

A few minutes after it was clear the wretch was dead; Martell placed a hand over Regis’s shoulder. Like a wild beast, the commander swung his fist around. A single hit was enough to push the man off the ground and send him sprawling into the dust. Unsteadily the Second got up on shaking hands. A large bruise grew on the side of his face.

“He’s dead…” He said as he spat a large amount of blood and a piece of the inside of his cheek.

“Everyone inside the house! Now!” Regis shouted at the top of his voice. “You stay Mar.” He added more softly.

The present Slayers gathered the slaves and hurried into the larges building. They knew that a lashing was coming and it would be in their best interest to keep lower than the grass. Only Till made his way towards the fallen Martell who still had problems standing on his feet. The old apothecary was waved away. Once the two men were alone, did Regis speak.

“Just sit.” His voice sounded apologetic. “This settles the matter of your punishment.”

“Right…” The Second coughed another portion of blood and crumbled into the dust.

“Till will have a look at you in a bit. In the meantime I want you to listen and talk. Don’t you dare pass out before we are done!” Regis sat down next to him and shook him by the collar of his armour.

“Nineteen Mar… Do you have any idea how this messes any plan I had? Fuck… We can’t recruit any of the natives.” Regis shook his head. “After all, we are here to hunt their gods and steal their secrets.”

“True… Orcs perhaps?” The Second spoke and made an attempt to focus his blurred vision.

“Maybe I should call Till. You are talking nonsense.”

“Good. This means you will look more favourable on my next suggestion.” Martell said and suppressed the urge to shake his head.

“That bad?” The leader of the Slayers dropped on his back and inhaled deeply the hot afternoon air.

“The girl… Cylin.”

“I know you like her, but you are pushing too far.” Regis sighed. “She’s a slave. She tried to kill you… Fuck, I’ll say it, because you need to hear it. She is too much like Nina.”

“That’s not true! Nina was…” Martell snapped but was interrupted.

“She was what, Mar? An elf? That’s not the point! Nina Asal of Mardaar was a rebellious girl who was foolish enough to trust you! She and Cylin are the same! They both hated you in the start, one tried to slice you open like a hare in your sleep, the other poisoned your food!”

“It’s not the same! I loved Nina! This girl is just a slave!” There was bitterness in the Second’s voice.

“And you will love Cylin.” Regis stood up and dusted his backside. “I’m not blind my friend. You’ve been teaching her the same tricks you taught Nina. Remember how that turned out?”

“Regis… Don’t.”

“I will say it because you need to get it through your thick skull.” He tapped the sitting man’s forehead with his finger.

“Nina got too confident in her skills. It’s your fault she’s dead. Accept it and move on, but do not make the same mistake. I do not have months to put you back together if that happens again.”

“Mar.” He spoke after a moment of silence. “Inney forgave you for the death of her sister a very long time ago. I forgave you a very long time ago. It is only you who still blames you.”

“It was my fault… I should have never convinced her to fallow me outside of the Mardaar forest…”

“Yes, it is your fault. Now get over it. I want the man who walked the Bleak. I need Martell of Mardaar, not this pile of shit.” Regis stretched his back before adding. “I will accept your recommendation, but, Mar, I want one good reason to do so.”

“It’s not just me. Nadene and Sarduk are going to second the proposal.” Martell coughed after a short pause.

“Is that because you’ve ordered them as Second?” The commander narrowed his eyes.

“No. The girl is gifted. In a few years, she will surpass them both.” The sitting man answered. “Nadene’s words, not mine.”

“Why haven’t you told me this sooner!”

“Would you have listened?” The question stung Regis.

“Of course!”

“Like you listened the dozen other times I tried to warn you?” There was accusation in the Second’s tone, but that evaporated as he continued in a more sombre voice. “Besides, we were twenty. And there can only be twenty Slayers.” Martell forced a smile.

“Don’t you ever forget that Mar.” Regis pulled up the man and slung him over his shoulder. “It’s time for Till to have a look at you. And for me to enforce some discipline among the ranks.”

 

 

In the following half an hour the Slayers at the camp felt a portion of the frustration of their leader. He engraved the mark of the shunned dragon Thanala, Lord of Regret, with a hot knife on each one’s right breast. After that, he sacrificed all the slaves by opening their chests and ripping out their warm hearts.

Around that time the others returned from the jungle. They were covered with sand from the coming storm. Their faces were a mix of worry, trepidation and excitement. Worry because of what they had seen on the outside. Trepidation because they could not see Vor and excitement because they recognised an induction ceremony.

“Where is Vor?” Asmund was the first to utter a word.

“Dead.” Regis stared at the large brute. “My order.”

“Till’s wagon, was it his doing?” The question came in a flat cold tone, as the man kept his commander’s stare.

“Yes,” the leader of the Slayers nodded.

“I understand.”

One look at Martell sprawled on the sand filled bed with Till cutting the side of his face to relieve the swelling, was enough to indicate there was more to it. However, the silver-haired northerner decided to drop the subject for the moment. There would be plenty of time to find the truth.

“Bring the girl.” Their leader commanded.

At his word, Cylin was pushed forward by Sonya and Nadene. The two women stripped her and forced her to kneel. Once in this position, Regis grabbed her chin and lifted her head. He looked straight into her terrified eyes and smiled. This was not his usual charming smile, this was different. It was the smile of a king who would rule the world.

He carved a small piece of one of the hearts and forced it into her mouth. He did not need to voice his command. She was supposed to eat it. Behind him, Sarduk produced a small bowl and gathered blood from all the corpses. Slowly he mixed it with some strange green dust from a pouch on his belt.

After consuming a chunk from each of the hearts she was lifted to her feet. Through it, all Regis kept a firm grip on her chin. With his other hand, he took a very thin steel quill and dipped its tip in the mixture prepared by the shaman. With expert movements, he stabbed the outer side of her left breast and drew a coiled snake.

“You have consumed the lives of many. You have taken their strength and courage. You have tasted their anger and hate. This is who you will become – an instrument of violence and murder.” Regis said in a priestly voice.

“I mark you with the sign of the great dragon Harthasia, Lord of Rebirth. Henceforth you are no longer a slave. You are Cylin of Scoria! You are one of the Slayers!” He finished with a loud shout.

“Congratulations little one. You are one of the pack,” Sonya whispered in her ear in her chilling emotionless voice.

Each of the other Slayers tapped their fists on their left breasts three times and released a mixture of roars and howls. Every one of them removed some small trophy or fetish from their armour and threw it at her feet as part of the induction ceremony.

“Twenty lives.” Regis boomed. “This is what you must claim before dawn. This is the way of the Slayers. You are a lucky one Cylin, because tonight, we have a town to burn to the ground.”