Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  Her stomach growled, she was famished and thirsty. Occasionally a soldier would give her a quick sip of tepid water but barely enough to wet her lips.

  The wagon crunched over a large rock, and the driver swore. Maya almost joined in as she got tossed to the rough floor of the wagon from the small seat she’d wedged herself into.

  The soldiers riding nearby laughed.

  It was strange, she thought, whether it was the soldiers based at the settlement, those who had sometimes visited, or now these taking her to whatever fate awaited, the only time they seemed to laugh or smile was at someone else’s misfortune or something unpleasant.

  As she rose from the floor, the cruel laughter loud in her ears, she looked up and noticed the young corporal riding by, looking at her. He wasn’t laughing, but then nor was he smiling. His face looked puffy and swollen from the wounds of his recent promotion, and seemed so hard and devoid of emotion that she turned away, not wanting to see such dispassion.

  Yet as she did so, she did a double-take. Had he winked at her?

  The corporal just dug his heels into the horse's side and moved on.

  Yet she was sure of it. He had winked at her!

  She wondered whether this was a good or bad thing, but at least there was some humanity in him, and if so, maybe in the others as well.

  The thought cheered her slightly as she settled back onto the rough bench, and tried to make herself as comfortable as she could as the wagon rattled onwards on its journey, toward whatever her fate held.

  -----

  Taran berated himself as he urged his horse forward. He shouldn’t have winked at that girl, and needed to be careful for he didn’t know what behaviour might spark unwanted curiosity. Everyone who wore the amulet only seemed to see the funny side of darkness. So he needed to go along with everything, be cruel, make unpleasant jokes and laugh when something nasty happened to the girl. Not wink at her!

  Still, he’d felt pity when seeing her fall, and had wanted to show her something even if it wasn’t compassion.

  When Taran, Rakan and the men had ridden out early those few mornings ago after his fight with Snark, they’d been accompanied by these five black-clad soldiers. Rakan was furious, but surprisingly he’d held his anger in check when told, just accepting their addition to the mission of escorting a prisoner with a gift to the capital.

  She was it seemed an unusual case, having been discovered as gifted at such a late age. Thus it turned out the men in black were five Rangers personally dispatched by the king, or as Rakan said when he’d asked, they were five of the most ruthless, soulless killers in the army. Merciless takers of lives.

  For the first time since Taran had met Rakan, he’d seen concern in his eyes, and when he’d briefly read his thoughts, he found fear. Taran was shocked, he’d thought Rakan was afraid of nothing, but here he was, afraid to be in the company of those he saw as his betters, and because Rakan was a little scared so was Taran.

  But, not just at the fact that they had five ruthless killers escorting the girl with them, but also because they were heading to the capital and the Witch-King. The last place where someone with an undiscovered gift wanted to be, and his first mission in the army was taking him right there.

  He’d searched Rakan’s mind deeply that first night, not liking the depravity he found there, but there was no hint of a plan to betray him, to hand him over. Somewhat surprisingly, if there was anything he’d found at all, it was that Rakan had started to care for him, even though he was struggling with the concept.

  It was hard to delve so deep and not pleasant either. He’d glimpsed Rakan’s slaughter of his family, almost his entire village, in his thoughts. It seemed so fresh, and he’d shuddered at the images.

  He’d then tried to read the Rangers’ minds, but strangely he couldn’t read them at all. Maybe that was a good thing, he thought.

  -----

  Kalas had finished his feasting a little while earlier. His wounds were gone although the memory of the pain remained. His daemon kin was quiet, sated by the bloodshed and feeding, purring like a cat in the recess of his mind. To feel its satisfaction was almost nauseating.

  He took this opportunity to consider his next move. He needed money, transport, provisions, armour and weapons, and they were all here.

  The garrison town was quite small and immediately after the slaughter he’d searched every corner, coming across almost a dozen soldiers in ones and twos who’d been unaware of what had transpired at the gate. His hideous visage, completely splattered head to toe in gore, was a foretelling of their fates, as they quickly joined their fellows wheresoever death took them.

  Now safe in the knowledge he was alone, he found the captain’s quarters. They were not sumptuous, there was little room for luxury in this army, but it did have a bath full of nearly cold water. He looked at himself in the silvered mirror on an otherwise bare wall and decided it would be no bad thing to clean himself up.

  Before doing so, he opened the chests in the room that had served as the captain's bed quarters and found spare clothing and boots. It looked as though when he changed from his peasant's rags, he would acquire the rank of captain, and he laughed to himself. Now all he needed were some hideous scars on his face, and he could travel unseen.

  Kalas barred the door. While he was sure there was no one else in the town apart from the lost souls of those just killed, there was no point taking chances. He undressed and climbed into the bath, spent as short a time as possible cleaning, and left the water a filthy red by the time he stepped out. There was no towel, so instead, he used a sheet from the bed to dry himself before he threw it on to his pile of clothes.

  Now truly clean for the first time in so many years, Kalas could smell the stink on his old belongings and wrinkled his nose in distaste. How far had he fallen in the depths of his despair all those years ago?

  The captain’s clothes were a touch too big, but they were of good quality, his boots fit well, and that was the most important thing. He smiled in amusement. There was a whole town full of dead, and it wasn’t as though he didn’t have plenty of choices if they hadn’t fit.

  He rifled through drawers and wardrobes for a while and found the captain’s pouch of coins, spare sword belt and dagger. He was glad this dagger would go in the belt and not into his chest. That captain's blow had come perilously close to his heart, and this reminded him of his mortality. He needed armour, not just clothes.

  Again there was plenty to choose from, but as he looked at the captain’s mail vest and other items, he decided what he had to do.

  He knew it was mostly vanity making the decision, but there was a practical aspect as well to what his mind had settled on. He would reclaim his old armour and weapons if he were able to find them.

  As a member of the royal guard all those years ago, his enchanted armour had been handmade, crafted to fit perfectly, while his weapons were forged from silvered steel, subtly inlaid with gold. They never rusted, and given time, any damage would repair itself.

  Each suit was worth a small fortune and was linked to the heart and soul of its wearer by the kingdom’s mages. Should the owner die in battle, the armour and weapons would lose their enchantment, so Kalas felt sure his would still be intact, assuming time or distance hadn’t broken the charm.

  When he’d wandered crazed and half-mad from the battlefield all those years past, he’d spent weeks travelling south with little purpose other than to get as far from the slaughter as possible. He’d felt like a coward skulking under cover of night, but the Witch-King’s soldiers had been busy hunting down any survivors of the royal families. Kalas had known his armour and weapons would mean his death if captured, so a week’s travel northeast from where he stood, he’d buried his armour and weapons by a small waterfall, between the roots of a tree.

  He’d spent a few days there, soothed by the sound of the water and nourished by the fish he’d managed to catch. Then he’d left the last of his old life behind and travelled further s
outh only to fall into the simple life of a farmer and the arms of his now-dead wife.

  Now it was time to return to a life he’d long ago left behind.

  Kalas spent the remainder of the day getting ready for his trip. Travelling on foot wasn’t plausible, so even though horses didn’t like him due to his daemon kin, he’d gone to the stables. The horses shied away when he first approached, but he’d brought along some fruit and sugar and eventually bribed by so many gifts the horses decided he could be trusted, and thus he had one to carry provisions and a gelding to ride.

  He let the other horses free so they wouldn’t die of starvation, and then rode out with the sun setting behind him.

  Yes, time to reclaim his armour. If he ever had the chance to face the Witch-King in battle again, he wanted him to see that despite the years that had gone by, the Ember Kingdom still had a champion that lived and sought his head.

  -----

  Chapter VII

  The journey north to Kingshold would take about a cycle of the moon, Rakan had advised, and soon after leaving the settlement with the girl, a routine had been established, and everyone knew their places.

  Every sunrise, Rakan made Taran and the four other men in the troop rise to practice swordplay before they broke fast. Then, once they set out, the black-clad Rangers scouted in the distance whereas Taran, Rakan and the others rode a little closer with one on wagon duty.

  It was their ninth morning, and they were coming to the end of their morning routine. While the others complained under their breath as Rakan pushed them through the last drill, Taran loved it. He revelled in every moment of whatever punishing exercise was demanded of him and found himself disappointed whenever Rakan finally called time.

  Taran knew he was improving quickly and only yesterday as they’d returned from their session, Rakan had slapped him on the back and said. ‘You amaze me. Give it another few sessions, and you’ll be my equal. You almost had me today with that counter. Now your stroke play is improving, combined with your reading, you’ll soon be feared.’

  He’d warmed to Rakan then for a moment, but only until he remembered how Rakan had put his life on the line for petty revenge, let alone all the other murderous deeds he’d committed. But he’d smiled and nodded his head, accepting the compliment.

  Whilst Rakan was still his better, that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. Taran’s shoulders, already strong from years of work in a blacksmith, found the sword and shield as light as a feather in his hands.

  ‘Right, practice is over,’ Rakan shouted, and the men were too out of breath to rouse even a small cheer as they started to gather up their equipment.

  A slow clap broke the silence, and there was Darkon, a look of disdain on his face as he stood beneath a tree, another Ranger at his side.

  ‘When I look at how badly your men wield a sword, I have to wonder if it’s them or you that’s the problem,’ he said pointedly, looking at Rakan.

  Rakan’s face went red with anger. ‘I can assure you it’s not me, and your comments aren’t helping the men’s morale,’ Rakan retorted.

  ‘Really?’ sneered Darkon. ‘Well, maybe you’re right. So, to prove it’s not you, we should show them some real skill. How about you and I have a brief duel to first blood? That way, we can show them how skilled you really are!’

  Taran looked at Rakan, expecting to see him gleefully accept, but his face which had been red a mere moment ago, turned white as the blood drained from it.

  Rakan bowed his head. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I’ll respectfully decline,’ he said very formally, unexpectedly conceding defeat.

  Darkon laughed. ‘Of course, you’d say that. Anytime you change your mind, just let me know,’ he said, as he walked off.

  Taran moved over to Rakan, shocked by this unexpected turn of events.

  ‘I hate those bastards,’ Rakan hissed as they started back to camp. ‘I would happily gut every one of them and leave the crows to feast on their disgusting eyes.’ But he said it quietly so as not to be overheard.

  Taran noticed the fear in Rakan’s voice even without reading his mind. ‘Come on, Rakan, I've seen you fight, are they really that good?’

  Rakan turned to stare at Taran. ‘The problem is they are. Most are selected from the gifted sent to the capital, and they are taught to kill from the moment training begins. I have no idea what else they’re put through, but supposedly the final test involves giving up their actual soul, hence the empty black eyes. They’re a hurricane. Maybe I could take one, just maybe, but I would die in the attempt. That much is certain.’

  They returned to camp and started to eat a quick breakfast.

  Whilst the food wasn’t great, eating it made Taran think about the girl. She barely moved in the back of the wagon from weakness, and sometimes when he rode close, she looked no more than a bundle of filthy rags thrown onto the seat. Her eyes, which he’d looked into after she fell, were becoming lifeless and dull.

  As they moved around the fire, Rakan turned to Taran. ‘Your turn on the wagon today,’ he said, ‘you’ve avoided it for long enough.’ The other men laughed. Riding on the wagon was a bone-jarring job, and no one wanted to do it.

  Taran just nodded, knowing that if he made a fuss, it would only invite more unpleasant jokes and carried on eating, putting some extra food into his pocket for the journey.

  -----

  Taran climbed up on to the seat and settled down, then looked over his shoulder. The girl’s eyes were closed, and she was still sleeping. Not for much longer, he thought, the moving cart would be enough to awaken the dead.

  He wondered for a moment if she would last the journey and a part of him realised that if she reached the capital alive, it wasn’t necessarily going to be the best thing for her, or indeed him. If she died on the way she would avoid whatever unpleasant fate likely awaited her, they would then turn back, and he would be free of the risk of being discovered. They’d both be better off.

  By the gods, what an awful thought. He was trying to justify her death to protect his own life. Just being around these soldiers had a negative effect on him.

  The Rangers moved out but ensured they kept the wagon just in sight; Rakan’s troop spread out as well, but for a moment Rakan remained close.

  ‘Why, if we’re in kingdom lands are these Rangers even needed, and why are they always so on guard?’ asked Taran.

  Rakan smiled and leaned in close. ‘Two reasons. First, it would seem this girl is of great value to our king. Of late there’s been an increase in lawlessness, and they’re here for extra protection. It’s quite rare to see them.’

  ‘What’s the other reason?’ prompted Taran.

  Rakan looked bitter. ‘It’s because they don’t entirely trust us.’ He nodded at Taran’s shocked look and chucked. ‘I feel the same. They’re making sure we complete the menial task of getting the girl to Kingshold without messing things up. Not forgetting they’re ensuring we behave ourselves just in case one of us isn’t who he seems.’ He winked as he said this, then laughed sarcastically. ‘Don’t fret, your secret’s safe with me,’ and with that, he rode off.

  Taran cursed under his breath. He’d hoped that during this mission, when everyone relaxed a little with the monotony of the journey, he could simply ride into some woodland and never be seen of again. But if they were being watched all the time with suspicion, then he wouldn’t get far, and no excuse would save him when they found him.

  He cracked the whip, and the cart horse obediently trotted forward. The girl stirred as expected, moaning in protest as she moved to sit on the bench, her back close to Taran’s. She had heavy manacles on her wrists and her feet. The skin was raw and in some places bleeding as they chafed at her flesh.

  She smelled terrible. Not that he blamed her. She wasn’t allowed out of the wagon to bathe or wash, and if she had to pass, it was through a small hole in the floor. It was a grim way to travel.

  Taran glanced over his shoulder and saw she was studying him fro
m beneath unkempt hair that lay matted against her forehead. He looked around quickly to see if anyone was paying attention, but there were far more interesting things around he guessed.

  He was about to say something then stopped, thinking. No one had issued an order not to talk to the prisoner. Maybe it was an unspoken order, yet none had actually been given. What would he say anyway? All his usual approaches to girls hadn’t been when they were tied up, well, not unless they asked for it. So saying ‘You look beautiful this evening,’ or, ‘are those stars in your eyes?’ in these circumstances, would definitely be the wrong way to start a conversation.

  Just say the first thing that comes into your head, he told himself. He’d always had a way with words, especially with the girls. ‘Hey,’ he started. ‘Why do you smell like a bear took a crap on you?’ Horrified at what he’d just said, Taran shut his mouth.

  The girl let out a small surprised laugh. ‘Now of all the things you could have said, I never saw that coming,’ she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He smiled with relief. ‘My name’s Taran, and yours?’

  ‘Maya.’

  ‘Well, Maya, I have to ask. When we came to collect you, all those flowers and plants, the bright colours, it was the most amazing thing I have ever seen. I was told it was the Witch-King’s doing, but others said it was yours. What gift do you have and exactly what does it do?’

  A look of fear and distrust appeared on her face. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Trying to find out what you can about my gift, what, so you can report to the Witch-King all you learn and earn a reward. You are all despicable men!’ and with that, she turned away, arms folded, and refused to respond to any of Taran’s attempts to get her to talk again.

  Taran gave up trying as he couldn’t exactly blame her. He was one of her captors, and this day he was the one driving her closer to her fate, most likely death. The crazy thing was, he was also driving himself toward a potentially unpleasant fate if other people somehow learned he was gifted too.