Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  No wonder men in the army were always so unpleasant, he realised. Throughout his life, he’d witnessed bullying behaviour, unwarranted beatings and even killings by the soldiers and had put it down to the army just recruiting the scum of the land. Now he realised there was something a lot more sinister to it.

  He took his knife, and using a towel held the amulet carefully, working the point of the blade behind the stone until it fell free. It rolled onto the floor, and Taran brought his boot down, crushing it.

  Laying the towel aside, he gingerly picked up the amulet, and this time felt no change to his emotions. He repaired the link by twisting the metal, then lifted it cautiously above his head and paused. Would he be able to remove it again if its power remained? But he couldn’t feel anything now, so he lowered it to his chest, and the amulet settled near his heart.

  Never had he felt so relieved to feel the grief and pain that still coursed through him. Now he just had to keep up the appearance of being under the amulet’s influence until … yes, until he found a way to escape from the army.

  His decision made him feel better, so he finished cleaning and then fell gratefully on to the bed. It seemed they would be on the road early tomorrow, away from this place and Taran couldn’t wait, because hopefully an opportunity to disappear would present itself. Maybe living in the wilderness would be no bad thing after all, or perhaps he could find a way to cross over into the Freestates ahead of the invasion.

  This time when his dreams came, full of Snark’s grisly demise, he awoke with tears coursing down his cheeks. This was how it should be, he thought. No one should take a life without feeling remorse.

  Fortunately, when he fell asleep again, it was without dreams.

  -----

  Astren opened his eyes to find the sun just rising and shadows still long across the stone floor of his study. This room was his favourite, as being on the highest level of his villa it had an amazing view over Freemantle, the capital of the Freestates, home to the ruler King Tristan.

  His home had been a gift from the king to buy his continued loyalty. The people of the Freestates believed everything could be bought and sold; hence they were the trading hub of all the surrounding lands. A kingdom of merchant states who had historically come together hundreds of years ago to dominate and monopolise the trade routes over the Forelorn mountains with the Ember Kingdom, now known as the Kingdom of the Witch-King.

  Astren stood from the couch that he’d been lying on and stretched his arms above his head. He then rang a small bell that stood on a table, and waited patiently while ordering his thoughts.

  He had a splitting headache and was famished, for he’d been spirit travelling most of the night across the border, to spy on the Witch-King’s gathering forces, and what he’d seen was sobering. They were mobilising, and within the next couple of months would try and force through the pass in the Forelorn mountains. Astren only hoped they could be stopped.

  He’d also decided to try and locate Maya briefly, but had been unsuccessful, and didn’t have much time to indulge in such whims. A servant entered in response to his summons with bread, cheese, and water. He moved to his desk to eat while he looked through the parchments that lay upon the desk, making notes of the forces he’d seen, and marked a map with their whereabouts while still fresh in his mind.

  Astren had warned King Tristan over ten years ago, that he believed this was Daleth’s immediate intent, having returned from a long posting as a trade emissary, that had seen him travel the length of the Witch-King’s lands. Initially, his warnings were met with horror and action. The great citadel that had been built over half a century before to bar the pass when Daleth first invaded the Ember Kingdom had been restocked, its walls strengthened, and siege weapons repaired.

  Soldiers had been hurriedly trained and hired from far afield, many stationed just a day’s march from the border pass in anticipation of an invasion. The member states in a panic had sent units of their city garrisons as reinforcements. The men and machines of war waited, ready.

  The cost of this had been vast, nearly half a million gold pieces from the Freestates treasury, an amount breath-taking in its size, and all on Astren’s word.

  Yet the only thing to approach the border in the following months was the continual supply of iron ore and precious stones. So when it became apparent no invasion was forthcoming, and the horrendous cost of this exercise was deemed to be for nothing, Astren was cast from the court in shame and the forces disbanded or sent home.

  The citadel thereafter was referred to as Tristan’s Folly for the money wasted, and it almost cost the king his crown.

  Astren was lucky to have escaped with his life, and he’d wondered at the time which of the gods had decided to spare him. His fall from grace was widely applauded as he was from common stock and likely lied about his ability to travel the spirit paths. Those who couldn’t, often thought of them as merely a fantasy, and Astren had met enough real charlatans claiming mystic skills that he hardly blamed the king for his final decision to expel him.

  Yet now after all this time, Astren’s fortunes had been restored.

  A half year ago, one of the Freestates emissaries to the Witch-King’s court had a lucky escape. His peers had been executed, yet fortune had smiled, and he’d managed to flee across the border to the Eyre, then bribed his way back to the Freestates. His tale to Tristan had been chilling.

  All of Daleth’s forces were being mobilised and great siege weapons built to help breach the citadel walls guarding the pass. The sickness that plagued his lands reached to every corner of the realm. It had gotten so bad that starvation would soon destroy Daleth’s people and army, thus reaffirming that an attack would be coming before too long.

  King Tristan, having received this report, ordered the Witch-King’s emissaries to be executed, border trade stopped, and preparations for war to begin again. Realising that all along Astren had been right, even if his timings were wrong, he’d sent out scouts to find him wherever he may be to have him reinstated.

  They’d tracked him down to a small trading post near the border with Eyre. He’d been making a living as a scribe to a cross border merchant, managing the man’s finances as well as using his skills to procure information on his competitors.

  The summons back to the capital was met with mixed feelings, his fall from grace still so bitter in his mind despite the many years passed. But when he returned, before being presented to the king, he’d been taken to this opulent villa near the palace. Here he’d been met by a court official who graciously showed him around before handing him the deeds with the royal seal which showed him as the owner, with servants, a salary and pension to befit his rank and return to favour.

  Being a man born and bred in the Freestates, he’d appreciated the value of the gift, and his loyalty had once again been reaffirmed. When returning to the king, he’d been met open-armed as if a long lost brother.

  So, once again he served Tristan, gathering intelligence, acting as the eyes and ears of the Freestates, their greatest spy.

  Anthain, the king’s bodyguard and general had been placed in charge of the Freestates forces, and specifically the defence of Tristan’s Folly. He was directly responsible for readying it for war, training men and hiring skilled warriors from the Eyre in the north and the desert lands to the southeast to defend its walls and was supremely confident in their ability to withstand the invasion.

  Astren wished he felt so sure, yet there was no denying the amount of gold that had been spent in ensuring the citadel was brought back to readiness. It was a mighty fortress, but the question was, did they have enough men to hold it and repulse the invasion? Daleth had an army of over a hundred thousand warriors, and whilst the small pass through the mountains would minimise the direct number the enemy brought to bear, should the worse happen and they get through, there would be nothing to stop them.

  Astren had considered gathering his wealth, to then quietly slip away to distant lands, for if the Witch-
King’s armies prevailed, all those connected to the palace would be slaughtered, be they noble or otherwise, and he’d rather that not happen to him.

  Yet even though he’d prepared for it, he decided to stay. They still had maybe a couple of months, and a lot could happen in that time. Anthain, already confident, was hiring even more men, and it was also possible starvation might hit the Witch-King’s army.

  Or maybe, just maybe, a girl with a gift of healing might have a part to play.

  -----

  Antoc sat on a chair in a dark room. Was it dark, he wondered, really dark, or was it just that his old eyes could barely see the light anymore? He sobbed a little then. If only that monster had killed him. This was a fate worse than death.

  He looked up to see Razad staring back in disgust, seeing nothing but a feeble old man instead of the young fellow sergeant he’d known and occasionally drank alongside in this last year at the garrison.

  Captain Hess sat behind his desk, and his gaze shamed Antoc into silence as they waited on the overseer.

  ‘Kalas is coming,’ mused the overseer. ‘A daemon in human form. Hardly a message I can bring to the Witch-King even if your story were partly true. At least you are who you say you are. Razad here believes there is little doubt as does the captain. But your men either deserted or are dead having killed one another in a quarrel over dice, and you, well you would have done better not to come back at all with whatever disgusting illness you have fallen prey to.’

  The overseer, his mind made up, turned to the captain. ‘The sickness that infects our lands comes from the evil doings of the Freestates as we all well know.’

  The captain nodded in assent. It was common knowledge that the kingdom suffered while the Freestates flourished. Why else would this be the case unless they weren’t behind it?

  ‘Whatever inflicts this wretch,’ the overseer continued, ‘is just another heinous justification for the coming campaign against them, to stop their evil sorcery that brings suffering to us all. Your report Captain, will be that Antoc and his men died from the sickness that claims so many of this kingdom’s lives, and the blame lays fully at the door of the Freestates. I would suggest this type of report would be better for your career than anything this old fool said about a daemon who drank his blood and youth away.’

  Hess nodded in relief. Thank the gods they would soon rid the world of the Freestates who brought such evil upon them. ‘What about him?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow, and turned his head to indicate Antoc.

  The overseer smiled cruelly. ‘I believe your report was to be that they all succumbed.’

  Antoc, who’d been finding it hard to concentrate on the conversation, suddenly realised the enormity of what had been said and started to rise in protest.

  As he did, Razad pushed him back down in the chair, hand heavy on his shoulder.

  He bent close to Antoc’s ear. ‘Sorry old friend,’ he said with a smirk, and Antoc’s world which had been so dark already, went darker still then turned black.

  Razad was about to pull his dagger from Antoc’s chest where it had skewered his heart but decided to leave it where it was. He would get another because it was definitely not worth the risk of catching something from Antoc’s blood.

  ‘Right,’ said the overseer rising. ‘Time to get rid of that disgusting body and ...’

  The door crashed open, and a soldier pushed in.

  ‘What the hell is this about?’ growled the captain.

  The soldier’s gaze flicked around the room between the dead man in the chair, the captain, the sergeant and the overseer.

  ‘Out with it man!’ snapped the Captain. ‘You better have good reason to barge in or that old man will soon have company!’

  ‘C-c-captain,’ stammered the man. ‘You and the overseer are needed at the gate right away.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Captain Hess.

  ‘Because,’ said the soldier, finding his poise, ‘there’s a man holding a gate guard hostage. He says he’ll kill the guard unless the overseer comes immediately.’

  ‘What! Who the hell is this fool who thinks he can come into my garrison and threaten my men?’ demanded Hess, rising then buckling on his sword belt. He beckoned to Razad and the overseer, then strode quickly out of the door.

  The soldier, thinking this was a direct question but finding himself alone, muttered the answer. ‘He said his name is Kalas.’

  -----

  Captain Hess strode through the small garrison toward the north gate swearing under his breath with Razad right next to him and the overseer shuffling behind. He was incandescent with rage, first losing nine men when they were soon to march out to meet with the gathering army, and now this.

  ‘Let’s find out what the hell is going on!’ he said to Razad, ‘and then, I don’t care who this man is, we’ll gut him and the stupid guard for letting himself get taken.’

  As they turned into the yard by the gateway, Hess slowed to take in the scene and chuckled to himself despite his anger. This wouldn’t end well for the fool, because despite holding the guard hostage, there was no leverage, and he would soon be fed to the crows. Almost thirty of the garrison soldiers stood around the yard, most with weapons bare, having been drawn to this unusual event, and were waiting for his orders to cut the man down. Still, he thought, let's find out what he wants first.

  As he strode forward, the guard who was on his knees, hands tied behind his back, looked up with hope in his eyes, but Hess didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he looked at the stinking peasant who held a sword to the man’s throat. The sword from the look of it was army issue, and as the guard’s weapon was still in its sheath, Hess could only assume the peasant had stumbled across it somewhere.

  ‘Well,’ said Hess, moving to stand on the porch outside of the guardhouse that overlooked the gateway. ‘What do we have here?’ He leaned against a wooden support and pulled out his dagger. Razad joined him and looking behind, he saw the overseer come into view.

  ‘As you can see,’ Hess said, sarcasm heavy in his voice, ‘we have done as you ordered. The overseer is on his way. Now, what demands do we need to meet to secure the release of our fellow soldier? Food, some good clothing perhaps?’ Some of the men standing around laughed in appreciation at his joke. ‘No?’ said Hess. ‘You want gold, a king’s ransom for this man’s release? Tell us, what do you want?’

  The peasant slowly pushed the cowl of his robe back revealing a strong-looking face. There was no fear in his eyes. In fact, the sun seemed to be playing some tricks, Hess thought, for they reflected the light in a strange way.

  ‘We are a little hungry,’ said the man with a smile. His voice, strong and loud carried across the courtyard with ease. ‘But that will come later. First, I wanted to ensure my message was passed on.’

  Hess stepped down off the porch and moved toward the man slightly intrigued, and as he did so, he felt a small chill settle on the back of his neck, and a feeling of unease nagged at him.

  ‘What message is this?’ asked Hess, then drew his sword, having decided that this conversation had gone on too long, and would shortly have a satisfying and very bloody ending.

  The other men, following his lead, started moving forward.

  ‘Well. I wanted just one of you, to deliver a message,’ and the man nodded at the overseer. ‘The rest of you …’ he said, sweeping his gaze around, ‘…as I said, we are a little hungry.’

  Hess, angry now, growled through his teeth. ‘So what’s your message? Say it now for it will be the last words you utter.’

  The man smiled again, and Hess realised now why he felt something was wrong. There was no sun, and this man’s eyes had started to glow on their own, red, as a daemon’s eyes might.

  ‘Oh,’ said the man. ‘The message is simple, it’s for the Witch-King, tell him,’ and as he uttered the words, Hess found himself saying them as well.

  ‘Kalas is coming!’

  As the words hung in the air, Razad almost flew past Hess, sword in his hand
, swinging to cleave Kalas in two, but suddenly Kalas was no longer there. Instead, as the sword chopped down, Kalas was gliding past, his blade slicing across Razad’s body. The next moment, Razad fell screaming alongside the restrained guard he’d just killed by accident with his final blow.

  From there, chaos reigned. But inside the chaos, as men ran forward, swords clashed, blood flew and screams shattered the afternoon air, there danced the daemon, moving fluidly, every blow deadly, men falling behind him like leaves from a tree.

  Hess, a swordsman of some considerable skill, saw his own death approaching and tried desperately to make something meaningful come of it. He threw himself forward, both sword and dagger flashing, but as the daemon passed by, his legs gave way, and he knew that he’d caused it little more pause than any of his other men.

  He fell facedown, warm blood pooling stickily around his face from the deep cut in his neck. He watched the last of the men in the courtyard fall and wondered how this thing could survive with his dagger deep in its chest, and someone else’s in its leg.

  But then even the warm blood couldn’t stop the cold that surged through him before darkness pulled him under.

  -----

  On the far side of the courtyard, Kalas finally stopped. The dagger in his chest had pierced his lung, and the one in his leg had possibly nicked an artery. He didn’t have much time.

  He turned to the overseer who just cowered in open-mouthed shock at what he’d witnessed. Kalas had to act fast. He grabbed the overseer by the chin, and the man whimpered in fear. ‘Deliver my message, and you will live,’ said Kalas.

  The overseer looked up, a blank look in his eye.

  Kalas shook him until he focussed. ‘Deliver this message to the Witch-King. Tell him everyone is dead, tell him Kalas is coming. Do this now, immediately, and you live. Tell him anything else, and I will know.’

  The man nodded frantically and closed his eyes, only to open them a few moments later. ‘I delivered the message as you asked,’ he whimpered. ‘I said exactly what you told me and nothing else. He wanted to know more, but I cut the conversation.’