by Marcus Lee
Maya quickly stepped between Rakan and the trapped men.
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘They’re not yours to kill.’
‘Sorry girl,’ Rakan growled, bloodlust rising inside him, images of revenge starting to flood his thoughts.
‘No!’ she said again, this time more firmly.
‘Move,’ said Rakan, and raised his hand to push her aside then stopped. The hand in front of his face wasn’t his hand, couldn’t be his hand. Not a single sore blemished his flesh. He raised his other, and it was the same. He sheathed the dagger then rolled up his sleeves, to see all the marks gone.
Taran stepped forward. ‘She not only saved our lives, but she returned my good looks. See?’
Then Rakan realised why Taran looked different, the wounds on his face from the corporal's marks were gone, healed without a trace.
‘Rakan,’ Darkon snarled, finding his voice. ‘Your wounds and sores may be gone, but you’re still damned ugly, and when your head is cut from your shoulders even this girl won’t be able to save your pathetic life.’
The rage which had diminished for a moment rose once again in Rakan. ‘Well, it won’t be you doing the cutting, and that’s all that matters.’ He lifted the dagger once more, his blood boiling, but again Maya stepped between him and Darkon.
‘I’ve told Taran, and now I’ll tell you. I won’t allow these men to be killed. We’ll leave them here to fare as they will, but we won’t be killing them.’
‘You don’t understand,’ growled Rakan. ‘If we let them live they’ll escape. Shortly after that they’ll find us again, and he is right, your gift won’t save you or me, they’ll kill us before we even know they’re there. I need to kill them now!’
Maya stood, her head only level with Rakan’s chest, half his size but a strength of will radiating from her now that Rakan hadn’t perceived before.
Taran stepped forward. ‘Rakan, I agree with you,’ and he put his arm around Rakan’s shoulders, ‘but before we push this further let me ask you this.’ Suddenly Taran wrapped his hand around the chain of Rakan’s amulet and wrenched hard.
‘What the hell lad!’ roared Rakan, spinning fast, his fist lashing out.
Taran ducked, and with a final surge of effort, the chain broke and the amulet fell away as Taran rolled backwards.
Rakan picked up a sword and raised it toward Taran, dagger in the other hand, but then a feeling of terrible pain ripped through his body and mind, and he fell to his knees as a scream tore from his throat.
As he knelt there, the pain gradually faded, and time seemed to slow. It seemed that the angry red mist in his thoughts through which he saw things, and that demanded violence as the answer to any argument, was gone.
So, despite the carnage, he saw for what seemed to be the first time, the green of the new grass beneath him, and the bright colours of the trees. Even the breeze felt fresh upon his face. He realised that the lad in front of him was indeed the son he’d never had, and he had a sword ready to do him harm.
‘What in the nine hells just happened?’ he gasped.
Taran lifted the amulet. ‘It’s this. When you had me enrolled in the army, Snark put one on me the day before I fought him remember? I felt the bloodlust when I wore it, but something was wrong with the chain, and it broke after the fight. I realised straight away there was some dark magic to the stone that’s embedded into it. I’ve been wearing it since, but I took the stone out.’
Rakan took the Amulet from Taran’s hand, holding it carefully by the chain and inspected it.
Maya looked over his shoulder, and there was the stone, strange clouds seeming to boil within it. ‘It’s incredible that something so small has such a dark power.’ said Maya. ‘But why?’
Taran thought for a moment before responding. ‘Everyone who enters the army is given one of these, and everyone who wears it seems to have their negative emotions heightened. The only reason I can think of is to make the Witch-King’s soldiers more formidable, and without question, it enhances the darkest parts of you and diminishes the brighter side.’
‘Right,’ said Rakan shakily. ‘We need to move from here and quickly. Over half the day is gone, and I think the sooner, the better.’
Taran and Maya nodded in agreement, but Maya raised her hand. ‘First, I need you to give me your word you won’t kill these two,’ and looked over at Lazard who was struggling, striving to loosen the vines whereas Darkon with his injured arm was unable to do much more than scowl.
Rakan nodded. ‘I still want to kill them. It’s still the right thing to do. But for the life you returned to me, I agree.’
As fast as they could, the three of them scoured the campsite, gathering packs, food, and water. Taran couldn’t help but admire Maya’s resolve as she went through all the dead soldier’s belongings with a purpose. A little later they all stood outfitted ready to leave, each carrying a pack.
Rakan and Taran had recovered their weapons, and Maya had taken a dagger and one of the Ranger’s bows, along with a quiver full of arrows.
‘Which way do we go?’ asked Maya.
Rakan nodded at Darkon and Lazard. ‘Let’s wait until we’re away from camp before we discuss such matters,’ he suggested.
‘Rakan!’ called Darkon, and Rakan stepped closer. ‘I’ll find you, and when I do, I won’t kill you fast. I’ll take my time and relish every cut, every slice of skin I pare from your body. I’ll be coming for you!’
Rakan stood straight, smiling, aware of his oath to Maya and that she was a step away watching. ‘First,’ he replied. ‘It’s hard to take that threat seriously when you look like a tree’s stuck up your backside. However, assuming you escape and find me, yes, even with one arm, you’re still likely better than me.’ Suddenly, Rakan drew his dagger and plunged it into the elbow of Darkon’s right arm, twisting it, severing sinew and muscle, before pulling it free then stepped back as Darkon screamed in agony and shock.
‘Now, even if you do find me, I have a feeling I’ll win the next fight,’ said Rakan winking, as he started to move away.
‘Rakan!’ exclaimed Maya, shock and hurt in her voice.
Rakan turned to Maya and shrugged his shoulders. ‘First,’ he said, ‘I promised not to kill him, and I haven’t. Second, with or without that amulet, I’m still an evil bastard so best not forget it. Now let’s go!’
With that, they left the camp and walked into the woods at a fast pace, the piteous cries of Darkon following them into the undergrowth.
-----
Kalas led his horse by its bridle, walking carefully through the woods, following the trail north that showed him the way like a signpost.
He was skilled at tracking, yet even a village boy would have been able to follow the main trail. It was as if someone had painted the trees and bushes along the path the travellers had taken, they were so different from those around them. Yet a village boy wouldn’t have known that six soldiers and a captive had passed this way, and Kalas read this from the trail.
He’d learned to track when training as a royal guard and spent months in the forests of the kingdom and the border swamps perfecting his skills, and they came back to him as if yesterday.
Even amongst the random fall of leaves and deadwood, there was still a pattern, a consistency amongst the forest floor. Where animals or people passed, they left marks, imprints, sweeping lines from the fall of feet; however carefully they were placed.
This group had left more obvious signs of broken twigs, bent stalks and the smell of human waste. They might be on a mission, but being followed didn’t seem to overly worry them, only speed toward their destination and discretion seemed to be their prime concerns.
He’d come to the assumption there was a captive because when someone’s movement was restricted, however slightly, they naturally compensated by widening their stance. Some of the footprints showed this pattern in uneven areas. He was also sure the captive was a woman, for her prints in the softest ground were smaller and shallow, indicatin
g less weight.
He pushed himself fast, eating and drinking on the move with his concentration frequently broken by the daemon as it whispered of its hunger when, despite the distraction, something caused him to pause. So he stopped and knelt, and there it was. A new set of prints had joined the others!
Kalas tethered the horses and backtracked this new trail, and found that it ran parallel to the main one by some distance. As he followed it, sometimes losing it for a while as the person who had left it was very skilful, he found another and then another.
He returned to his horses an hour later, concerned.
There was the main party of six, and now it was apparent there were some very skilled scouts shadowing the main group. They kept a disciplined perimeter and the fact they left almost no mark of their passage meant they were very highly trained, and likely wary of danger.
They didn’t know he was following of that he was sure, but forging ahead was no longer an option in case he ran into a hidden rearguard who might ambush him. He was confident he could overcome any foe in hand to hand combat even without the daemon’s help. But an arrow through the eye would still kill him, and any serious injury would slow him and eventually mean his death without the sustenance of new life to replenish him.
His armour would do a lot to protect him, but it didn’t make him invulnerable, and in fact made him far easier to spot in a forest, as his shining suit was anything but well camouflaged.
He needed to move quietly and carefully from hereon. The horses had served him well, overcoming their fear of his possession, but were anything but quiet, and in thick woodland, they couldn’t be ridden easily anyway. He removed the saddles and gear before releasing the packhorse, slapping its rump so that it trotted off then turned to the gelding that had served him so well these last few days. He ruffled its mane, and in a rare show of affection, it nuzzled his shoulder snuffling in pleasure as his fingers scratched its neck.
‘I have no friends,’ said Kalas, ‘and I think you and I have actually become friends.’ He scratched harder, and the appreciative horse tossed its head.
His other hand moved to his belt, removing his dagger, and swiftly he drew it across the horse’s neck, a deep, swift blow. Kalas held its bridle tightly as eyes wide in shock it tried to rear, but its legs buckled, and it fell to the floor. Kalas knelt and cradled its head, stroking its mane as its eyes began to close
He removed his helm and leaned forward. He wasn’t hungry, but he fed anyway.
-----
The next morning as light filtered through the trees, Kalas arose.
He looked at this armour. It had been splashed with blood the night before but was again pristine, courtesy of the magic that imbued it, so he grabbed a handful of mulch and tried to get it to stick, but was not surprised when it fell away without a mark. If only the mages had had the foresight and wisdom to recognise that shining armour wasn’t always a good thing, he wouldn’t be having this problem. He sighed and gave up trying.
He looked over at the corpse of the horse, and for a moment, felt sadness and regret, yet the feeling didn’t last long. What was done was done; it was time to focus on more immediate concerns.
Who exactly had made these tracks? It was obviously an important captive to have so many escorting her, but the reason why was a puzzle that intrigued him. So what better way to keep the boredom from his journey than continuing the hunt to find out.
Kalas wasn’t hungry, but nonetheless he ate some dried meat from his pouch, and washed it down with tepid water, then having covered any signs of his camp, he set out to follow the trail again
As he moved, he divided his attention between the ground at his feet and the surrounding woodland, always alert. Before long, he knelt to examine a deep scuff on a tree root that caught his attention. It was definitely less than two days old, maybe just one. Satisfied with his progress, he left the main trail and followed it a dozen steps to the side, the strange recent growth that marked it easily visible from that distance.
The whole day he tracked cautiously, searching the shadows as he listened for any untoward sound, a break in the rhythm of the forest, yet all seemed as it should. Occasionally he went back to the main trail to gauge how far ahead his prey was before returning to his path.
Kalas was so absorbed in his task that he was surprised to notice that the sky had begun to grow darker. He would need to stop to rest soon, for whilst the daemon could help him see at night and even keep his stamina up, the cost was that his senses would be overshadowed by its growing and insatiable need to feed. Still, he decided to push on just a little while longer to reach the crest of the hill he was currently on. It would be a good vantage point, he told himself.
Then when he finally reached the top, he wondered if his search was over.
He fought the daemon for control then, as the smell of blood filled his nostrils, driving it into a frenzy of excitement. ‘Quiet,’ he told it. ‘You fed last night, remember. Be quiet.’
Kalas circled the campsite that had appeared before him, staying hidden in the undergrowth. As he searched, he found a new trail leading off to the northeast. He was tempted to follow it straight away, yet knew it would be better to wait until first light. In the meantime, he would see what had happened before night closed in. He stepped from the undergrowth, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his longsword, not because he would need it, but more from the comfort it gave, like the feeling of a lover’s hand.
‘I wondered when you would step from the shadows,’ a voice said.
Kalas crouched, sword drawn in an instant but then cautiously lowered it. He stepped forward, his eyebrows raised in unconscious amazement, for there was the owner of the voice encased in vines and leaves with another man beside him in the same situation.
‘I know,’ said Darkon weakly, ‘I look like a damn tree. Now free us both, and I will see you rewarded by the Witch-King beyond your wildest dreams, whoever you may be!’ He looked quizzically at Kalas’ armour as he said this. ‘But, be warned,’ he added, ‘if you don’t, the Witch-King will see your face and have you hunted down and killed before the next moon rises.’
Kalas looked closely at Lazard then, whose eyes were half open and staring in a trance.
‘Your friend is a spirit talker?’ enquired Kalas, a smile spreading across his face.
‘Yes dammit. He is communicating with the Witch-King as we speak and what he sees the Witch-King sees. Free me now, or nothing the nine hells has to offer will be as bad as what befalls you.’
Kalas’s laughter was deep and loud. ‘Oh joy!’ he exclaimed and removed his helm. ‘It’s hard to eat when I wear this,’ he added conversationally, then leant forward to bring his face close to Lazard’s. Kalas’ eyes glowed a fierce red. ‘Do you see me Daleth? I’m coming for you, Kalas is coming for you! Do you hear me Witch-King? I’m coming!’
With that, he turned back to Darkon. ‘You have no idea what horrors the nine hells hold.’ Darkon’s eyes were wide, and he started to cry for the first time in his life.
‘Now,’ said Kalas, ‘let me show you.’
-----
Daleth opened his eyes in his bed-chamber to find himself covered in a cold sweat.
When he’d first communicated with Lazard, his fury had been incandescent. How could two traitorous soldiers and a girl have bested five of his finest Rangers? The girl, whose every step was now minutely wounding him as she healed the land around her, merely by walking through it.
Through Lazard's eyes, he could see she had found other ways to use her power as both of his Rangers’ temporary imprisonment was testament to. Thankfully her weakness in letting them live would soon see them free and on her trail, to kill her and the two wretches in the most horrible of ways. He’d felt better as he imagined the unpleasant things the two Rangers would do, and Lazard had assured him that in two days or three at most, it would be over.
But then he’d watched transfixed through Lazard’s eyes as a warrior had entered the clearing an
d he could hardly believe what he had seen. A man wearing the armour of the long-dead Ember Kingdom, and not just any armour, but that of the royal guard, shining as if recently forged.
Lazard had wanted to break the communication right then, to try to concentrate on freeing himself, but Daleth had commanded him to watch, to see so that he could learn. Then, for the first time in his adult life, he’d felt a cold hand grip his heart as those eyes had turned red. Kalas was coming for him. Kalas, whom his supposedly loyal general, Alano, knew nothing about.
He’d watched Kalas drain the life and youth from Darkon, and then fled Lazard's mind, not wanting to feel the agony of Lazard’s imminent death, but he’d still felt the man’s fear just before he severed the communication. Death didn’t bother him, not when he’d orchestrated the fall of nations, yet still, he’d felt sorry for Lazard. Dying in such a fashion was not how a warrior should meet his end.
He lay on his bed and looked up at the painted ceiling, where frescoes portrayed his reign. Alano had lied to him, betrayed his trust! What should he do about such an act?
There were many reasons he’d kept Alano alive over the years. Initially, it was the awe he’d felt at Alano’s display of swordsmanship in that epic battle, then, because he’d enjoyed feeling Alano’s despair at being unable to fulfil his ancient oath. But as the years passed, it was for his counsel, his strategic mind, and truth be told, in this world of mortals it felt reassuring to have Alano around when everyone else grew old and died.
Daleth had never enjoyed true friendship with anyone, but this didn’t feel just like treason. The anger he felt was of betrayal by someone he’d grown unknowingly close to and who should never have been able to betray him, even if it was because a daemonic oath bound him.