by Marcus Lee
That the girl had a gift was not in doubt. He’d struggled to keep his face neutral when they’d first collected her from the village. The new growth and colours that infused the usual dismal and dreary setting had started to make him feel something unusual inside, at least for a few moments before it faded.
The overseer and the Rangers had told them that it was the Witch-King’s blessing that had brought this respite to an otherwise dying land, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d heard the whispers of the villagers, and saw the way they looked at the girl, something akin to worship in their eyes.
Had he any doubts before that she was special, there could be none now, not since she’d placed her hand upon his arm. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, then pulled up the sleeve of his shirt a little. He still couldn’t believe his eyes.
His whole life he’d suffered from skin rot. A horrible affliction that blighted many and even killed some. It had been the cause of untold torment when he was young and the cause of countless fights as he grew older. He knew he looked as ugly as sin with every inch of his body covered with either scars or these stinking weeping sores.
No girl would ever lay with him looking like this, at least not out of love or lust and it cost him ten times the going rate at the garrison brothels, and for what; a few moments of pleasure that died the second he saw the look of relief on a woman’s face that it was over.
He looked down at his arm, his fingers idly scratching at the perfect skin where her hand had gently touched him that morning. There was no itching, no redness, no sores, just the skin of a normal man for as wide as her handsbreadth. It was a shame she might die, for that was her likely fate at this age. He would have paid everything he had to see if she could cure him, or at least get rid of some of the sores on his face so that people didn’t always have to try and hide their revulsion.
Yes, definitely everything, so that he could look in the mirror and see what he might have looked like without this curse.
Only Taran had looked at him without disgust when first they’d met, and for that and other reasons, Rakan had felt himself warm to the young man even before Taran had helped him get even with the now-dead Snark.
He looked back at the wagon where Taran sat rigidly as it bumped along the track and sighed again. He’d been hard on the boy and frightened the girl, but the Rangers would have gone harder, and Rakan wanted Taran to stay alive.
It was a strange thought he realised. Soldiers he’d known for years had died horribly, and not once had he been bothered by their passing. Yet here he was worried that Taran, who he’d only known for less than a cycle of the moon, might get killed by the Rangers. Strange indeed.
He looked at his arm a final time before rolling the sleeve down. That damn girl, why’d she have to go and do that. She was likely going to die and for what, having a gift of healing. Maybe, just maybe the Witch-King would use her to heal the land and his people. Yes, that must be it. A feeling of relief swept over him. The faster they got her to the capital, the better for everyone.
With that, he dug his heels into the horse’s side and continued scouting, a smile on his face.
-----
The day had passed slowly absent any further conversation with Taran, slower than Maya had thought possible.
That monster Rakan had frightened her so much, and Taran had not looked back once since, nor met her eye as he passed the water cup at the midday rest. Now the long day was over, and the men were busy as they set up camp, clearing the ground to sleep on and gathering wood to keep the fires burning.
As she watched, Taran moved away from the group and came to give her the evening ration of water, and she moved to the back of the cage to the bars.
His back was to the other men as he passed her the cup. She looked down and noted that once again he’d filled it, even after Rakan’s threat. She tried to seek his attention, but he was still avoiding her. ‘Look at me,’ she said softly, and reluctantly Taran’s gaze lifted until their eyes locked.
She felt her heart jump a little as his eyes finally met hers. Until this point, she’d only seen the harshness of his face above a soldier’s uniform, the wicked sword at his waist or the weeping wounds on his cheeks. However, in the dying light, the lines of his face seemed softer, more youthful and innocent, his eyes kinder.
They seemed to hold each other’s gaze for what seemed forever. Maya knew it was just for a few heartbeats, but she was sure her heart had never beat so hard and loud in her life.
Taran reached out with his other hand, and for a moment she held her breath wondering if he would try and hold hers, but instead, he pushed a small leaf-wrapped package of food through the bars.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper so as not to be overheard, and as she saw a smile dawn upon his lips, to reach the corner of his eyes, she realised that she was smiling too.
He seemed about to say something, but harsh laughter from the campfire shattered the moment, and as he turned away, she saw the smile fall from his face and the hardness return.
Which was the real him? She settled into the shadows to discreetly eat the food he’d given her. Despite her captivity, the food, water and perhaps most of all his small acts of kindness left her feeling stronger, not just of limb, but of mind. She began to wonder once again if escape might be possible as opposed to going to her fate like a lamb to the slaughter.
As she chewed, she thought of her father and his needless death, and whilst there was still sorrow, there was also now anger, and the beginnings of a fire started to burn inside her. She wanted to end this injustice, not just for him, but for the suffering all of the people endured.
By order of the Witch-King, she was imprisoned when she could be free healing others and the land, but instead, she was likely going to her death. If she ever found freedom, whatever time she had would be used for the good of the land and its people, no longer in the shadows hiding her gift. She would leave something behind before she died that would live way beyond her meagre years.
She stared fiercely into the darkness now surrounding the camp, and there staring back at her again were the golden eyes of the wolf, soft and comforting. It turned its head, and she followed its gaze, seeing it look first at the soldiers around one campfire where Taran sat next to Rakan, and then back to the other where three of the Rangers sat. She knew the other two would be in the darkness keeping watch as was their routine, but she was unsure where.
Finally, the wolf stared at the other side of the wagon, and its lips pulled back from its fangs. Despite being behind bars, Maya felt a shiver run down her spine as she realised that despite her perceived kinship, this was still a wild, ferocious and dangerous beast and it seemed that it was here to hunt.
A low growl that Maya could feel in the pit of her stomach emerged from its throat, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the horses tethered for the night. The wolf crept forward, keeping low. She held her breath, waiting to see what would happen next, and suddenly the wolf was all flashing jaws as it leapt, teeth snapping, into the midst of the horses who whinnied in terror at this predator amongst them.
The horses reared in panic as the wolf’s teeth drew blood, The Rangers and soldiers all surged to their feet swords drawn, shouting, but this just added to the mayhem.
The mounts, desperate to escape, broke the picket line before any of the men could intervene and galloped off with the wolf behind as it drove them into the darkness. From the shadows, the two hidden Rangers appeared, bows drawn with arrows nocked and let loose at the disappearing wolf. Both missed, and Maya realised she was still holding her breath, and let it out in a sigh of relief.
The whole camp remained in an uproar with recriminations being shouted back and forth between the Rangers and the soldiers. Finally, they organised themselves into making torches, and several disappeared into the night to try to find any of the mounts that might have escaped from the wolf.
Despite her tiredness, Maya waited for the men to return, and all
of them did, but not a single mount between them. Exhausted, they fell around the dying campfires, and Maya couldn’t help but smile to herself as she closed her eyes.
It seemed the journey to the capital had just grown a lot longer.
-----
Chapter VIII
Daleth’s spirit finally separated from his body.
Spirit travel for him was not always easy, yet he spent as many nights aloft as his skill and strength allowed. Whenever he did, he journeyed far and wide, to keep a wary eye upon his kingdom.
The message he’d received from the overseer of the garrison town had deserved far more immediate investigation and had plagued his thoughts for days. However, spirit travel took a harsh toll and left a person as tired as if they hadn’t slept at all. With invasion preparations at such a crucial stage, he couldn’t afford to have his attention dulled by exhaustion, however impatient he felt to investigate. Of course, he could have sent someone else, but his weakness was control, he took on everything he could, for he trusted no one more than himself.
Now, however, with everything as ready as it could be, he flew swiftly south from the capital over mountains, hills, and valleys, the greyness of the landscape below him. He knew it was not the moonlight that made it so dull ... this land was close to giving up all of its life to him.
As he passed above the might of his army gathered at the different staging posts, he felt reassured with the knowledge that he would shortly crush the Freestates beneath his mailed fist. He put the thoughts of conquest to one side and focussed on the task at hand.
He’d recognised the overseer, a wretch called Varsav, and he flew unerringly to the small garrison town that oversaw some of the far southern reaches of his kingdom.
As Daleth approached, the gates stood open, creaking loudly in the wind. He drifted down to see movement inside the yard beyond the gates and walked forward, under the gatehouse, not a grain of sand disturbed by his ethereal feet. What the movement was, soon became apparent.
Dozens of carrion birds tore away at the bloated corpses of the soldiers strewn about like ragdolls. This couldn’t be the work of just one man, he thought, yet as he studied the footprints that remained in the sand that had yet to be disturbed by the scavengers, he read the signs of just one set of boots linking death after death. He placed his feet into those very marks and soon found himself twisting and turning in a parody of a dance as he moved between the corpses.
Finally, the dance led him to the porch where the body of the overseer lay mostly undisturbed. His death was different from the rest. There was no sign of an injury from a weapon, yet his throat was torn out and not by birds. The marks looked like those of human teeth, but more interestingly his body was an aged husk.
He knew of only one man who could create such carnage on his own, who fed upon the blood of man or woman leaving them in such a drained state. Yet where he stood was several weeks journey from the capital, and Alano was rarely ever gone for more than a few days on duties and this last week, not at all.
He felt a presence back in the chamber where his body sat at rest, and knew it would be Alano. Alano, with a sword in hand, trying to plunge the blade into his unprotected body, yet the blood oath he’d made with his daemon was too strong for him to overcome.
For a moment, his mind briefly wandered back to when the oath was made.
It had been a day of total victory yet utter disaster for him that day, nigh on fifty years ago.
He’d watched the battle against King Anders and the royal guard come to its conclusion with many mixed emotions. Relief at his victory, when for a brief moment it seemed defeat might be a possibility. Anger that his plans for future conquest had been destroyed along with his army. But also awe at the enemy warriors who’d fought with incredible skill, and one in particular. In silver armour and white cloak, on a mound of corpses the size of which beggared belief, sword and dagger still in hand knelt the man he came to know as Alano.
Daleth had never seen a man pierced by so many weapons still breathing, and the voice that issued from his mouth had sent shivers down his back. It was the daemon inside who begged to live and slaughter in Daleth’s name, if only it were allowed to continue its immortal life in this mortals body. It would serve and never betray.
Seventy thousand men and his plan to invade the Freestates had died that day, but he’d gained a daemon that had bound Alano by blood and oath, and true to its word had served him well.
His reverie over with, he flew back to his body and opened his eyes in the chamber. His head pounded from the sleep weed he’d taken to assist in his travel. There as expected stood Alano, not disappointing him, sword in hand, yet the daemon’s will held him easily at bay.
‘My king,’ said Alano. ‘You sent for me. How can I serve?’
Daleth nodded. ‘I received a message. I wonder if it will make sense to you more than it does me. It seems one of our garrisons was recently attacked, and to a man completely slaughtered.’
Alano’s eyes widened. ‘I have not heard of this. The Freestates can have no military presence in our lands, and I cannot believe the people of the Eyre would ever dare to incur your wrath directly.’
Daleth smiled. ‘I know Alano, I know, don’t fret, it was one man who did this. He sent a message, and I wonder if it wasn’t in fact somehow meant for us both.’
Alano raised an eyebrow waiting, but he didn’t have to for long.
Daleth held his gaze with his cold white eyes. ‘The message he sent was; ‘Kalas is coming.’
Alano stared steadily back into his king’s face. ‘Kalas,’ he mused, ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
-----
Maya had barely fallen asleep it seemed when she awoke to Rakan’s voice calling his men to practice, and she saw them move to an open patch of land to train.
She usually looked anywhere but at them. Men and swords meant death, and they were everything she was beginning to despise about this land, but this time she watched.
Taran squared off against Rakan with a heavy wooden sword in one hand and a short wooden dagger in the other. The other four soldiers paired off as well, but she found herself studying Taran as he moved. He was broad of shoulder and strong of arm, but not overly bulky and when he pulled off his shirt in the morning sun, she smiled when she saw he had a bit of a tummy. He obviously enjoyed his drink a little too much it seemed.
Rakan, in turn, started to strip off his shirt, but paused and left it on before raising a sword in mock salute, and then they began.
Despite her loathing of soldiers and their swordplay, she soon found herself appreciating the rhythm and fluidity of the moves. As Taran and Rakan circled one another, their blades although unwieldy, whirled in patterns, rarely still, and she marvelled at how they could maintain such a tempo whilst the other soldiers seemed so broken in their movements by comparison.
Suddenly, the movement ceased, and there stood Rakan, his sword resting lightly against the side of Taran’s neck. Rakan smiled in victory and Taran responded with a smile of his own bowing his head in respect, but also tapped his sword against the inside of Rakan’s thigh where it rested, and she felt herself smile as well.
‘Enough of your pathetic child’s play!’ Darkon shouted as he strode forward. ‘Time to ditch those toys.’
Rakan bridled under the stinging insult and started to raise his voice in protest.
However, Darkon would have none of it. ‘Quiet!’ he barked. ‘If you haven’t noticed, we are without horses, and in their absence, unless you fancy hitching all of your men to the wagon, we’ll all be walking until we reach the next garrison town. From here on, we’re on foot, and that includes that damn girl. So Rakan,’ and he spat the word as if it were something horrible from his mouth, ‘you and your men will carry as many provisions as you can without slowing our progress.’ With that, Darkon turned away and walked back to his own men.
Rakan angrily barked orders, and the wagon was quickly stripped of everything, which was then split
into essentials for the road and non-essentials to be left behind, such as the practice weapons.
Every time one of the soldiers came to take something from the back of the wagon Maya felt their gaze on her, and from the barbed comments that kept coming her way, it seemed they were blaming her for their ill luck. Curses fell upon her ears, and she felt herself tremble at the hatred.
Only Taran occasionally slipped a smile her way when no one was looking, and now strangely Rakan seemed to view her differently.
‘Right lads,’ called Rakan, gathering his men together. ‘The girl needs a guard for the rest of the journey.’
Immediately they all raised their voices and started complaining, saying it was beneath them to look after the girl.
One of the men called Lexis, who seemed to dislike Taran, suggested that as Taran had volunteered to ride the wagon, he should be the one who continued to guard the girl. Taran protested loudly, and Maya felt surprised by the hurt she felt that he didn’t want to demean himself by guarding her anymore.
Rakan let the argument grow for a while before he raised his voice and bellowed. ‘SILENCE!’ Looking at Taran he said. ‘Lexis has it right. You volunteered to guard this girl before, and just because the circumstances have changed and not to your liking, doesn’t mean you can drop those duties just because you want to.’
The rest of the men laughed in relief, and Taran swore, which only served to increase the merriment of the men, Lexis more than any.
Taran bowed his head in defeat, his hair falling across his face, and as he turned briefly toward Maya he flashed a quick smile, and she realised that he had played a ruse and her spirits lifted. To want something was the best way not to get it in the company of men who seemed to thrive on the misery of others.