The Genesis Sequence Books 6-10

by Mackenzie Morris

  Removing his apron and tossing it into the laundry basket, Slayven fixed his baggy red pants and the skin tight white tank top. He hurried to the entryway of the modest house and knelt in front of the wooden door. The clock on the wall ticked down the final ten seconds until five in the afternoon.

  As soon as the minute hand ticked over to the twelve, the door opened and a pink-haired warbringer with matching circular horns in leather armor pushed past Slayven. He tossed his laser pistol on the hallway table. "Tea. Now."

  "Right away, Warbringer Talvier." Slayven scrambled to his feet and into the small pale blue kitchen with the white stainless steel and matching cabinets. The tea kettle whistled on the stove, perfectly timed. He removed it from the burner then poured the steaming tea into the delicate black porcelain teacup with the golden rim. "I have made you a nice lavender tea with buttered scones."

  Talvier unlatched the belt around his waist and fell backwards onto the green sofa. "I want green tea and cherry danishes."

  His jaw tensed as he poured the lavender tea down the sink then opened the oven to retrieve the perfectly golden brown scones that he had worked for two hours on. "Warbringer?"

  "If you're talking, you're not working."

  "Yes, but I made these scones and-"

  "I said I wanted cherry danishes."

  Slayven sighed as he opened the trash bin and let all of the scones tumble inside, wasting his hard work. "I don't have any cherries, warbringer."

  "Fine. Bring me one of those scones, then."

  Was he serious? Slayven's heart skipped a beat when he saw the scones, piled the trash. "Warbringer, I will have to make you more."

  "Why?"

  "They . . . they are in the trash bin. I thought you didn't want them, so I threw them out."

  "Did I tell you to throw them out?" Talvier asked, his voice deep and growling.

  "N-no, warbringer."

  "That's five, Slayven. Oh, and two for not putting my laser pistol away. You will be punished after dinner."

  Slayven snarled as his one form of silent resentment before putting on another kettle of tea and fetching the ingredients for a second batch of scones. He had just scooped out the flour when Talvier called to him from the living room.

  "Forget the tea and the scones. I need dinner. You do have my dinner prepared, don't you? I don't want a repeat of yesterday."

  "Yes, warbringer. I made a salad with roast human and bald eagle eggs."

  "And?"

  Slayven swallowed hard and tossed his black hair behind his shoulders. That salad was all he had made. He thought it would have been plenty. He silently removed the glass bowl from the refrigerator and scooped out the salad into a crystal bowl.

  "Are you deaf? I asked what else you made for me."

  "Nothing, warbringer. I apologize. I thought this and the scones would have been enough. I can go find something more in the market if you wish."

  "Unbelievable. No wonder Kalimis beat you."

  That stung, but Slayven remained calm enough to carry the bowl of salad to the oak table in the living room without dropping it. With a bow, he placed the bowl in front of the much larger Azimandian who was already sitting at the table and tapping his fork against the side of his empty wineglass.

  Talvier took the bowl and stuffed a massive bite into his mouth. He nodded his head and motioned to the chair on the other side of the table. "Well done, Slayven. Bring another bowl for me and one for yourself. You have earned dinner tonight."

  "Thank you." He quickly fixed the bowls then sat at the table. He wasted no time in eating the first meal he had eaten in nearly two days. Talvier had denied him food the previous day because he had tripped on the edge of the carpet and spilled soup on the floor.

  "I owe you an apology for the harshness I have shown you this past week. Tirlmayn has been running us ragged through intensive training. I've been stressed to the breaking point and taking it out on you. I lost control last night. How is your back? Honestly, are you still hurting?"

  Slayven could still feel the swollen red welts across his shoulders and spine that pressed against the rungs of the wooden chair. "They hurt, but I will be strong as you have demanded."

  "Hand me the wine next to you and another glass."

  He opened the glass door of the cabinet and picked up the dust-kissed bottle of Elysian pinot noir and slid it across the table. "I missed this cabinet while dusting."

  "It's fine. You can dust again tomorrow." Talvier poured both glasses full to the rim and handed one to Slayven. "Drink. I hate drinking alone."

  "Thank you, warbringer."

  The two of them ate in the calm quietness of the house on the Star-World, both from different social classes and walks of life, but with their own mounting problems. One was an elite warrior, entitled to riches, glory, and privilege. The other was a slave without a voice or even the right to be alive. Yet in that silence, they were equal in their mutual worry.

  Talvier finally broke the silence. "No punishment tonight. You've done well today. After you finish eating, you are free to retire to the basement and get some rest. I have some paperwork to do for our fearless warlord."

  "Thank you, warbringer."

  "Oh, I saw Kalimis today."

  Slayven nearly dropped his wineglass in excitement. "You did?"

  "Yes, at his daily punishment in the square. He is not holding up well at all. He is alive, but he is broken. Indulge me for a few minutes. Do you love him?"

  "I did. I used to love him, but I don't anymore."

  "Because he beat you?" Talvier asked.

  "There are many reasons. We used to be so close. We were not only teenage lovers, but best friends as well. I was with him because I wanted to be with him, not only because he claimed me. I think stress go to him and he lost control."

  "It is more common than you would think. Warbringers have a difficult life, almost as bad as a rejected's life, like yours. We all have our burdens to bear. I need you to do something for me. Go into my bedroom and I will join you in a moment."

  That was an order that never led to anything pleasant. Would this be the night that Talvier did the unthinkable? He had every right to use him for anything he wished. Slayven bit his lip and obediently stood from the table to slowly walk into the bedroom he had recently cleaned. He removed his slippers and tank top methodically and without feeling. He had been forced to do this too many times to count. As he went to unzip his pants, Talvier chuckled in the bedroom doorway.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Preparing myself for you."

  "Oh. Oh, no. You're my nephew. I'm not doing that to you. Sit. I have something to show you."

  Confused and worried at the same time, Slayven sat on the edge of the bed and played with a loose string on the quilt. He watched Talvier closely as he rummaged through the closet safe.

  The warbringer stepped back out and held a polished black box in his arms. "Do you have any idea what is in this large box?"

  "No idea, warbringer."

  "When you were three days old, your horns were removed as punishment for being born during wartime. You had to pay for the crime of your father, my brother. Your horns were then given to me as a permanent reminder of the shame that had been placed on my family. The horns continue to grow as they would if they were still attached to the warbringer. These are your horns."

  Slayven's mouth fell open when the lid was opened and his eyes fell on the smooth curved blue horns that were dark at the base and lightened at the tips. "They're beautiful."

  "Yes, they are. And large. You would have been a formidable warbringer. Here's the point of me showing you this. I am reaching my limit of dealing with Tirlmayn and his minions. He's running our empire into the ground. The longer this pointless war against Elysia continues, the worse off we are going to be. Now he has that half breed son of his parading around and giving speeches like he owns the place. He doesn't even have horns. Prince Aveni? More like a sick joke that needs to be eliminated. I will not
bow to a half breed. That is why I have joined the Azimandian Underground, the rebels. I want to stop this war and see Tirlmayn's head on a pike. Our plan is to gather enough warbringers and middle class korvishi to band together to overthrow the current ruler. We will kill Tirlmayn, Prince Aveni, and Krisharn then place the rightful heir on the throne. Visht will be our new warlord."

  "I'm sorry, but what does this have to do with my horns?" Slayven asked.

  "Right. I need a warbringer at my side to be my combat partner because things are going to get messy. I need someone I trust to have my back. I want you to be that warbringer."

  "I . . . I don't understand."

  "There is a surgeon working with the Azimandian Underground who can reattach your horns. The hormones will be reintroduced into your system and your body will transform back into that of the warbringer you were born to be. I am giving you your horns back, Slayven."

  Slayven traced the curves of his horns with his fingertips. "I don't know what to say."

  "You need to say yes and swear to join me in battle. Join the Azimandian Underground."

  "I am already a member. I have been for years with Kalimis. I have connections all over the empire."

  "Wonderful. We are going to need those connections. Listen closely to what I'm going to tell you. I hated treating you poorly. You are no slave, Slayven. You are a warbringer, but I had to test you to make sure you were cool-headed and disciplined. I wanted to push you to see if you would snap or yell at me. You passed the test. Together, we will end this class structure and bring Azimandia into a new era. I am sick and tired of seeing my family being abused. You carry my blood in your veins, so I will do all I can to make you into the warbringer you were born to be. Tonight, I believe you are ready to be free, at least inside this house. You have proven yourself. Sleep wherever you want. Watch television, eat whatever you desire. I will even have something delivered if you would like. Today, you stop being my slave and become my nephew."

  * * *

  "Get the rejected. Bind him and bring him to the fire."

  Slayven was awakened to thick black smoke that filled the bedroom where he had fallen asleep after talking with his uncle. Once he heard the voices in the living room, he slid off the bed and crawled underneath in the darkness as quietly as he could. Who were they? Why did they want him? And what fire were they talking about? Was the house on fire? Slayven curled up with his knees drawn against his chest. He held his breath when the heavy boots pounded against the wooden floor. The quilt was thrown from the bed, followed by the pillows and Slayven's tank top.

  "Where is he? The rejected slave has to be in here. Did he run out of the window?"

  "Check under the bed."

  Slayven's heart fluttered. He made himself as small as he could, scooting up towards the head of the bed to have the greatest chance at avoiding their hands that shot underneath to feel around for him. Flashlights shone in the area through the thickening clouds of smoke. The particles in the air itched in Slayven's throat, irritating his lungs and arousing the need to cough. He covered his mouth with his hands, but there was only so much of the smoke he could breathe in. He lost control. He coughed.

  "Get him."

  Slayven cried out when the calloused hands tightened around his ankles and dragged him out into the light from the flashlights that filled the bedroom. He tried to grab onto the bedposts, the mattress, anything, but he was not strong enough. The hands yanked him free and sent him sprawling onto his back.

  Four warbringers stood over him, their eyes sparking with desire, bloodlust, and fury. They were armed to the teeth with bandoleers of grenades across their chests, knives on their belts, and multiple laser pistols in holsters on their hips. One of them with yellow horns grinned darkly and spit onto Slayven's face. "It's him. Kalimis the traitor's lover boy. Get him up and bind him. He goes on the pyre with Talvier. No one who defies Tirlmayn will live."

  Slayven opened his mouth to scream, but a dirty cloth was shoved into his mouth and the cable from the television was cut and wrapped around his head to keep the cloth in place. He whimpered through the gag as he was stood to his feet and bent over the edge of the bed. Heavy hands pinned his arms against the mattress as others tugged on his pants. Someone's body pressed against his back and hot breath made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  "Let me have a go with him before we kill him. I'd hate to waste a chance with a rejected slave like this one."

  "Stop it, both of you. We're not here for that. If Tirlmayn found out, he would have our heads. Let him up."

  "Whatever."

  Slayven was pulled backwards into the arms of the yellow-horned warbringer who punched him in the mouth. A stream of blood trickled from his busted lip down his chin. That made the warbringers chuckle before they picked him up and carried him like he was a piece of furniture out the front door and into the darkness.

  A few feet from the house, a crowd had gathered around a blazing bonfire. Slayven was tossed carelessly onto the road in front of a makeshift stage that was made out of cargo crates. He picked himself up on his hands and knees then lifted his head to see the three members of the royal family glaring down at him from their places on the crates. They were formidable in the light from the crackling flames of the pyre. Tirlmayn, Krisharn, and Prince Aveni.

  Tirlmayn raised a hand to silence the rowdy crowd before addressing Slayven directly. "Rejected Slayven, your uncle, Warbringer Talvier, has already been thrown onto this execution pyre to pay for his crimes of treason against the empire. He foolishly believed that he could undermine the royal family by joining the Azimandian Underground. He betrayed his family, his lineage, his people, and his country. We would not have found out about his treachery if he had not spoken to you in the bedroom earlier this evening about his plans to assassinate me and my family. That's right, Slayven. We had the house bugged from the minute we allowed you to go with him."

  They bugged the house? Then they knew that Slayven and Kalimis had both been members of the Azimandian Underground. They knew that there was a surgeon who could reattach horns. They knew so much. Slayven met eyes with the blond human-looking man in the belted shirt and baggy pants with a cape and metal left arm. Prince Aveni. No . . . Vance Trainor. Slayven and Vance had been inseparable friends for years at that point. They had saved each other's lives over and over. They had shared their deepest fears and desires. They knew all there was to know about each other. Would Vance have been brainwashed into believing the lies of the Azimandian empire by his father? Or was Vance Trainor still under there?

  Vance stood stoically still and emotionless. His blond hair caught in the wind and his burgundy cape billowed behind him, revealing the boomerang that was strapped to his arm. His mismatched eyes stood out against his lightly tanned skin and he was wearing the traditional princely makeup. There was no sign of concern on his face as Tirlmayn continued speaking.

  "This is my empire. I have worked tirelessly to make Azimandia what it is today. It is a fighting force, the likes of which the universe has never seen. I single-handedly conquered the Milky Way Galaxy with my merciless and brave warbringers who have been trained in perfection from the day of their birth. I will not allow all of my hard work to be undermined and threatened by a group of rebels who believes in equality of the classes. Do you know what happens when everyone is equal? Weakness. Weakness happens. You have Elysia. Elysia and humanity are weak because they choose to allow the thin, the malnourished, the dumb, and the poor to strive for what the best of them have. They force-feed them false hopes of becoming what they want, even if there is no way possible for their economies or military to support that. They view all races as equal, all skin colors, all heights and ethnicities and economic levels as being equal. Do you know the reason we are better than humans? Because we have our place. Every single Azimandian has their place in society, even the ones who choose to break protocol and marry a man."

  Vance's jaw visibly tensed at that remark. He shot a sideways gl
ance at Tirlmayn.

  The warlord did not seem to notice or care. "My point is that our society will not succeed if we do not have predetermined places. It is the natural order of things. Warbringers are the genetic pride of the empire. They fight and breed more warbringers. The korvishi work in factories and on farms to produce the goods we need for the front lines. The women ensure our warbringers can mate and reproduce. Then there are the lowly rejecteds. The criminals, the vagrants, the rebels. They are worthless. Some prove themselves a tiny bit better than dirt by serving as slaves for warbringers, taking care of their sexual needs and entertaining them. It is all trash like you are used for. Yet here you are, on your knees in front of all of us because of your attempts to break out of that place. Maybe if you had served on your knees in a warbringer's bedroom, you would have been taught some humility."

  Slayven hissed behind the gag.

  "But enough of this. There is no explaining our ways to someone who has time and time again rejected them and turned his back on his own people. Slayven, you were trouble from the moment you were conceived. I should have broken your spine and paralyzed you as an infant so you would have stayed on your back and been useful for some warbringer to come home to every day."

  Vance's eyes narrowed and his fists tightened. What his father was saying was obviously having a negative impact on him. It was clear that the prince was fighting back the anger that rose up in him, brought on by Tirlmayn's harsh insults and vulgarity.

  Slayven begged his friend silently with his eyes. Vance was still there, underneath the royal clothes and makeup. He watched that anger bubbling up to the surface. Surely Vance would not let him die here. He had to do something, say something, anything. Slayven thought back to the Azimandian phrase that Vance had whispered to him before all of this started, back when they were together on Telva's ship. Could all of that have been a lie?