Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  In fact, in this country, this life, this army, there could never be friends. Everyone was a potential enemy, waiting for you to make a mistake so they could climb over your dead body to rise in the ranks.

  Yet now as he looked at Taran, Rakan realised he saw the young lad as a friend, or perhaps even one day the son he would never have. There behind him was the girl, who had with a simple touch removed some of the skin rot that had blighted him his whole life, who healed the land as she passed, soon to be slaughtered by order of the Witch-King. A girl the lad had seemed to grow fond of.

  Rakan sighed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said to Taran, stepping forward. ‘You know what’s coming, don’t you?’

  Taran nodded his head, and as he did so, Rakan spun, swords flashing as he threw himself into the Rangers who were sitting, waiting for the fight to start. His swords swung left and right, and Taran launched himself forward at the same time, having read his intentions.

  The surprise attack looked like it would work, but only for an instant. Rakan managed to kill two of the Rangers in less than a heartbeat, and as the others turned toward him, Taran had run forward to plunge his sword into the back of a third. However, Darkon and Lazard both rolled away from the lashing blades, leaping to their feet unscathed.

  Then they attacked.

  Rakan had trained Taran well, but nothing had prepared him for this. Within a moment, he had cuts across his chest and arms as he desperately tried to fend off Lazard's strikes. He had no time to make an attack of his own, and then as he tried to block one of his opponent's thrusts, he knew it was too late.

  He could almost see in slow motion as the man’s sword went past his parry, cut between his lower ribs and exited his back in a bloody spray. His cried out in agony and shock, collapsing to his knees as Lazard let go of the sword, leaving it protruding from his body.

  Taran slowly turned his head, the pain making his vision blurry as he felt his strength ebbing away. Rakan was still fighting, and for a moment, Taran held some small hope as Darkon’s left arm hung useless at his side. Yet Rakan was a bloody mess himself, bleeding heavily from numerous deep wounds. Suddenly, Rakan’s legs buckled as Darkon attacked, and the Ranger leapt past his weak cut and moved behind him.

  He placed his boot on Rakan’s back and pushed him face-first to the floor, and then thrust his sword through his body, pinning him to the ground. Rakan screamed in pain and fury, but it was over for him too.

  Taran looked around barely conscious to see Lazard frantically wrapping a cloth around the wound on Darkon’s arm, to stem the blood while all the time keeping an eye on Maya who stood frozen, seeming unable to move. Taran could hear himself moaning. The pain was agonising, and he couldn’t help himself, however hard he tried to stifle the sound.

  Rakan was trying to rise but couldn’t, and his eyes met Taran’s, and he smiled faintly. ‘I almost had that bastard. He won’t be able to use that hand to pleasure himself again.’ Blood gushed from the corner of his mouth. ‘Still, he was damn good I’ll give him that, but not as good as I thought he would be! If I’d have been younger, I reckon I might have had him, or maybe just on a better day.’

  Taran grimaced back. ‘I reckon you could have,’ he said, barely able to hear his own words. ‘Maybe you could ask him for the best of three?’

  ‘Quiet!’ snapped Lazard. ‘If you talk so much, you won’t be able to hear the screams so well, and we wouldn’t want you to miss the fun before you die. Our little gift to you both.’

  Taran wanted to shout at Maya to run, to tell these men to stop, but it would be to no avail. He tried to meet her gaze with his own, but her eyes were closed now, not willing to face her fate he imagined, and he couldn’t blame her.

  Lazard's hand lashed out, knocking the dagger from Maya’s grasp and still she didn’t move, and both Rangers laughed.

  Darkon struck again with his open palm and Maya fell back against the tree behind her, and this time she did open her eyes.

  ‘She’s awake just in time.’ Lazard laughed and pulled his dagger. ‘Any last words before we put out your eyes because after that we’ll take your tongue. So speak while you still can!’

  Maya looked up at them both. She said something, but too softly for Taran to hear above his own moaning, and he saw the two Rangers pause, before stepping forward their daggers raised at the ready.

  Chapter X

  Kalas stood overlooking the waterfall, which over fifty years ago had seen him bury his armour, bury his memories, bury his shame. Now he stood here, young once again like the day he’d cast it aside, but at least then he’d been free of the daemon’s will.

  He remembered how it had been when he was first here. The sky bright, the air full of the scent of flowers, the sound of bees and the rage of the water as it crashed down full of life and force. It had been a beautiful place, but at that time he’d been unable to truly appreciate anything. Instead, everywhere he looked, he saw his dead friends, their blank eyes accusing him of running away, not fulfilling his vow when everyone else had. Why had he lived when they had died?

  The water had laughed at him, and even the birds had seemed to mock him. His mind was lost at that time, yet not so much that he hadn’t the presence to hide the armour rather than throw it into the surging waters.

  He shook his head and looked again.

  The water still crashed, but instead of running clear, it seemed almost oily, the foam yellowish and sweetly unpleasant. The rocks which had once been bright green with moss, with bees busy collecting pollen from the small white flowers dotted all over, were now covered in foul-smelling green slime and bloated flies. Yet reassuringly the rocks under which he’d put his armour seemed undisturbed.

  He dismounted from his horse and hobbled it against a tree, and it dipped its head to graze the grass that was partly edible and carefully made his way over to the mound.

  The rocks he’d put in place between the roots of a tree were not small, yet with his new-found youth and strength he made short work of lifting them away, and there underneath was the oiled cloth that he’d laid over his old equipment.

  His hands trembled as he reached down, almost afraid of what he would find, and he paused for a moment. To wear the armour would mean he could no longer hide in the shadows pretending to be part of the Witch-King’s army.

  He swept the cloth aside, and there it lay. Even though the sky was dark; still the silvered steel shone with a lustre that seemed brighter than the day itself. He’d forgotten how beautiful it was, and he was amazed that the lesser magic that had bound it to him over fifty years ago still kept it free of rust, mildew, or contamination. He looked around, but only the horses kept him company, so he started to pull off the dark armour that he’d looted until he stood only in his trousers, linen shirt and boots.

  Reaching down, he lifted the mail shirt first. It chimed softly as he lifted it over his head, slid his arms through and let it settle on his shoulders. Next the breastplate, then the shoulder guards, the studded kilt, thigh guards, greaves, gauntlets and weapon belt. Even after all this time, not only did every piece fit him perfectly like a second skin, but his fingers didn’t fumble once with the straps and buckles. Lastly, he settled the helm upon his head and reached for the weapons.

  The longsword and shortsword he drew from their ornate scabbards, and the edges of the blades were still as sharp as a scorned women’s gaze. He secured them to his weapon belt along with a long heavy dagger, and finally, the two small throwing knives that fitted into sheathes, one above each shoulder blade.

  Finally, he stood ready, and for the first time in a great many years, he felt a sense of purpose other than waiting for death to come and find him with old age. This time he would go and find it, and swiftly.

  He turned to his mount, and it snorted, tossing its head.

  ‘Do I look ridiculous then?’ asked Kalas of his horse, gently ruffling its mane.

  ‘No!’ said the daemon in his head. ‘You look like a king returning to clai
m his throne and to do so you and I must swim through a sea of blood together!’

  ‘To kill the Witch-King or die trying,’ said Kalas to the daemon. ‘We must both die. That is my oath.’

  ‘Let us kill the Witch-King first,’ soothed the daemon. ‘Let us not think about dying. Then we can consider what happens after in good time. First though, we need to eat, and I suggest we do it before we try to cross the border into the Freestates. It’s never a good idea to dine on one’s new hosts,’ and the daemon giggled manically.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Kalas, and wondered briefly why he found it so easy to agree with the daemon.

  He swung himself up into the saddle and started humming a dark tune as he rode onward. He couldn’t remember where he’d picked it up from, but it brought thoughts and images of bloody battles to be fought and won to his mind, and he felt full of purpose as the day passed.

  In the distance, something strange caught his eye. In a land so full of browns and greys and ill-looking green, there amongst some thick but dying woodland, was a thin but distinct winding line, like a trail. Yes, definitely a trail, but of a hue of green he hadn’t seen since the old days.

  His curiosity piqued, he turned the head of his horse and dug his heels into its flanks and cantered off, his direction set.

  -----

  Maya had watched the morning's events unfold with a dread she’d never felt before, ever. Even when her father was killed in front of her, it had happened so quickly that she’d not seen it coming.

  Yet when she’d awoken to the men’s curses and had seen the unintentional healing her growing gift had wrought upon the land, she knew there would be trouble, but nothing in her imagination had prepared her for something like this.

  To hear her death sentence from Darkon’s lips, and the promise of torture or worse at the hands of Lexis and the other soldiers had shocked her beyond belief.

  Maya felt her like mind wouldn’t stop spinning, as it tried to grasp the reality of what was being said. She had weeks to live surely, weeks before she met the Witch-King, weeks more to get to know Taran a little better, to plan an escape somehow. Why waste all of this trouble to get her this far only to kill her now. Yet it seemed the orders came from the Witch-King himself.

  When Taran had stood up to try to stop it, she’d wanted to tell him in that moment how no one had ever done such a thing for her. Instead, she’d just willed him to sit down, not wanting him to throw his life away needlessly.

  Then when he’d drawn his sword, cut her bonds and stood willing to die next to her, even amongst such terror, her heart in these last moments of life had beat for the first time with a strange feeling she’d never felt before and sadly realised she never would again.

  Then what followed was a nightmare.

  In moments everything had turned to blood. It all happened so fast, bodies everywhere, and just when Maya had felt there was a chance, both Rakan and Taran were cut down by the two remaining Rangers.

  She’d been overcome with sorrow, wanting to run to Taran to heal him, yet the only thing that ran were the tears falling down her cheeks. Even though Taran had given her a dagger, she couldn’t even bring herself to use it, not on herself or against anyone else for that matter yet she held on to it nonetheless.

  Now, after the harsh sounds of battle, the ringing of steel on steel and the cries of the dying, it seemed so silent and still.

  She was vaguely aware of the two Rangers walking toward her, but still she did nothing. She was in shock, and knew it. Inside she was screaming at herself to run, to fight, to do something, but she was frozen. Yet, inside her, something was happening. A feeling of anger, of resentment, of fury, building, rising like a storm, impossible to withstand.

  Sharp pain brought her back to her senses, and she found herself with her back against a tree, with the two Rangers, Lazard and Darkon, standing before her, daggers drawn with murder and worse in their eyes.

  ‘Any last words?’ asked Darkon.

  Suddenly all was calm, her panic fled as quickly as it had come, her trembling hands stilled, her heartbeat slowed and what she needed to do became clear.

  ‘You should run while you still can,’ she said, knowing they wouldn’t.

  Surprise showed in their eyes for they’d expected her to scream, to beg, to turn into a quivering wreck, but not this. After a moment they stepped forward again.

  Maya grabbed the trunk of the tree, and she let her gift flow like never before, unleashing a huge wave of emotion, directing it through the tree at the two men in front of her.

  Her eyes glowed so brightly that for a moment the two Rangers stepped back a pace and then like lightning, roots and vines shot from the soil around the two men, twisting and writhing, wrapping and binding.

  They struggled frantically, hacking in a vain attempt to free themselves, but what would have taken months to grow, happened in mere heartbeats. The two men found themselves enveloped as if in steel chains, completely immobile, unable to move their arms, legs, or body. Only their heads were free as Maya stopped the flow of her gift and stepped forward.

  ‘Say a word,’ she said, looking them both in the eyes with a confidence she’d never felt before in her life, ‘and it will be your last.’

  Now wasn’t the time to hesitate if she wanted to save Taran.

  She ran to him and his eyes were open in wonder. ‘Be ready, this will hurt,’ she said.

  Before Taran realised what was happening, Maya took the hilt of the sword that ran through his body, and putting her boot on his chest, yanked the blade free. Taran fell backwards, blood spewing from his mouth and the wounds.

  She knelt by him, placing her hands on his chest and again reached for her gift, letting it flow, infusing Taran’s body with her power, closing his wounds, strengthening his heart, taking away the trauma and pain. Exhaustion started to take hold of her then, but still her gift flowed.

  Colour returned to Taran’s face, and his eyes began to close.

  She leaned forward, kissing him lightly on the lips.

  ‘Please, please,’ said Taran, as consciousness started to slip from him, ‘save Rakan too.’ Maya looked over at Rakan and started to stand, but Taran’s hand briefly grasped hers. ‘Just one more thing.’ Maya leaned down, her ear close to his lips. ‘Maybe when you save him, perhaps don’t kiss him as well!’ and with those words, Taran closed his eyes.

  Maya found herself barely able to stand her limbs were so heavy with tiredness, yet she moved over to Rakan and pulled the sword from his body staggering then falling as she did so.

  Rakan made no sound as she crawled to his side, wondering if she was too late but determined to try anyway. She lay her hands upon his blood-spattered face and reached for her gift, hoping she would stay awake long enough to finish the task.

  -----

  Rakan fell into blackness, the pain excruciating, impossible to resist as it dragged him under. Yet the agony he felt as he was dying was strangely eclipsed by the pain of not being able to save Taran and the girl, the futility of the situation, his defeat at the hands of Darkon.

  He was no fool. He’d been a soldier for longer than most in this cruel world, watching hundreds die horrible deaths, and had always known he would never die in his bed, that wasn’t his destiny. So as the light from the world started to fade, he’d accepted his fate, wondering whether the next time he opened his eyes, the nine hells would greet him. At least he would have plenty of company, he’d killed so many evil bastards in his life.

  Yet, as his mind started to go blank, a light began to fill his head, his mind, his thoughts. Not the dark red flickering flames he expected, but a golden glow that seemed to wash away his agony as if he stood in the pouring rain. The light faded, and he started to struggle, to open his eyes again. Maybe he could somehow find the strength to push himself from the floor and fight once more with these last gifted moments,

  Rakan didn’t know how long he’d lain there, but he felt exhausted, yet his efforts were finally rewarded
. He opened his eyes and looked up to see dark clouds moving sluggishly across a darkening sky.

  This was wrong. He should be face down, mouth full of dirt, blood and bitterness.

  He sat up without pain, then jumped to his feet. He knew his time would be short, the kind of wound he’d received should have killed him already, let alone left him able to stand. Then for the first time, he looked around.

  The bodies lay where they’d fallen, clouds of flies swarming around gaping wounds. No more than a dozen steps away sat Maya on a log, eyes half-closed as if about to fall asleep, and next to her Taran. They sat there talking, deep in conversation.

  There was something strange about Taran, something different he couldn’t quite identify, but it was evident that Taran’s armour was riven where Lazard had run him through with his sword, and he was covered in blood. Yet, he just sat there, attention firmly on the girl, talking.

  Rakan looked down and saw his own broken armour, blood everywhere, yet none was flowing; maybe because there was none left to flow. He really must be dead, this was some parody of his final moments, and soon daemons would appear to continue his torture. Foolishly they had let him keep his sword, so he would make them regret that at least.

  Taran stood and walked toward him.

  Rakan stepped back, raising his sword. ‘Stay back daemon,’ he warned, and the daemon that looked like Taran laughed.

  Taran looked back over his shoulder at Maya. ‘You might have healed his body, but you seem to have forgotten his brain,’ he called, then turned back. Rakan, Maya saved us, she healed us, don’t ask me how, but because of her, we are alive. I’m no daemon, and we are not in hell.’

  ‘Where are those two bastards Darkon and Lazard then?’ growled Rakan.

  Taran’s smile faded a bit. ‘They’re still here, more’s the pity,’ and he pointed at two strange ivy-clad trees. ‘I’ve been trying to convince Maya ever since we awoke that I should kill them.’

  As Rakan approached, he whistled through his teeth, and an evil grin spread across his face. ‘Now I know I’m not in hell.’ He tilted his head back and roared with laughter at Lazard and Darkon trapped in the vines, while they looked back at him fiercely. ‘This is definitely paradise if these two are here like this at my mercy!’ He bent down and picked up a discarded dagger from the ground and moved toward them. ‘Boys, boys, boys, this is going to hurt you so much, I can’t even begin to explain.’ A shadow of fear crossed the features of the two Rangers then.