by Marcus Lee
‘Why’s that?’ asked Taran.
‘Well,’ said Rakan. ‘Now we run!’
Chapter XI
Kalas knelt and examined the trail in the soil. Three people, one a woman who barely left a trace, and two men were moving with haste as shown by the indent of heal and elongated stride which indicated a running step.
The captive it seemed had escaped and was now with two of the soldiers. Initially, there’d been an attempt to disguise their destination, but now the trail led in almost a straight line through plain and woodland toward the Forelorn mountains. They were going to attempt a crossing to the Freestates.
Damn the daemon and damn his constant hunger and need to kill. He could have gotten information from the two Rangers, yet instead, he’d feasted too swiftly, his hunger clouding his thoughts and ability to make sound decisions.
The captive was important, they had been taking her to the capital, and as he looked around at the change to the wilderness around and above him, it was now apparent why. This girl, this woman, was somehow healing the land, breathing life back into it with a power that was nothing like he’d ever heard of.
‘Imagine what such a powerful life would taste like,’ sighed the daemon in his head, and he felt hunger wash over him, insatiable, as if it hadn’t eaten in weeks.
‘Quiet!’ he thundered, pushing back. ‘We are going to find the Witch-King and kill him or die in the trying, not pursue some girl just to satiate your hunger.’
The daemon whined and writhed at his sudden strength of mind, filling his head with feelings of gratification should he slay her.
‘No,’ said Kalas, ‘we will not hunt her down.’ Yet thoughts came to his mind that the daemon subtly placed without his knowing. ‘But, we still need to join the Freestates forces so we can face and kill the Witch-King, so there would be no harm in following their trail a little longer.’
‘Then when we slay him,’ coaxed the daemon, ‘we should perhaps drain his life instead, imagine the taste and just imagine if it were possible to gain some of his power; it’s so strong.’
Kalas sank to his knees, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth, blinded by images of glory, of Daleth dead at his feet, his blood on his lips, his life in his veins. He could know a power unsurpassed, and vengeance would be had for his dead friends, for his long-dead king.
‘But first,’ whispered the daemon. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to kill Daleth if we were able to somehow feed off of the girl’s power? ‘Is that what you’re considering?’
‘Yes,’ mused Kalas. ‘Anything that helps us fulfil our oath to kill Daleth. There is no harm in trying to make sure. We should kill the girl first, kill the girl!’
Thunder rumbled. ‘A storm is coming,’ he told the daemon, ‘we should find shelter.’ He stood but saw the sky was clear, no storm clouds, yet the thunder was louder, and now the ground shook with its anger. He scanned the hills surrounding his position only to see a line of cavalry crest the ridge no more than an arrows flight to his north.
He looked back the way he’d come. The cover of the forest was too far away, and he’d been seen. To run would simply lead to him being cut down from behind. He stood for a moment, the daemon quiet for once as he quickly counted the lance tips glinting in the grey light.
There were too many that was for sure. Daemon kin or no, there were too many. If they all attacked at once, he would fall soon enough, and all his dreams would come to nothing.
He sighed. He’d run once before in his life and had regretted it ever since, the time for running was long behind him.
‘Don’t worry, my brother,’ whispered the daemon in his mind. ‘I am with you always, let us dance together, the dance of death.’
Kalas knelt again, then placed his hands on the ground as the cavalry drew closer.
-----
Captain Kasamda led two centuries of light cavalry as he rode through this dying dustbowl of a land. The evil of the Freestates was growing stronger, sapping everywhere of goodness, and only the power of the Witch-King had stopped the kingdom from being overwhelmed years ago.
He sent a short prayer of thanks to his divine ruler before focussing on the countryside around him. Soon he and his men would join the army to crush any Freestates force guarding the border pass, and then his lancers would be let loose to ravage the countryside beyond and to run down any soldiers who escaped.
First though, there was this demeaning task of hunting down two deserters with a runaway captive, and some fugitive or foreign spy that the Witch-King in his wisdom wanted to be captured instead of killed.
He and four hundred cavalry had left the staging town of Garnost several days before, and had split into two units of two hundred men. The orders were simple, and Kasamda wanted the reward that went with the capture of the fugitive. Still, he would be happy with just easing his boredom by slaughtering some peasant girl and the two deserters who had supposedly helped her escape. The men were laughing as they rode, glad to be away from the confines of the city, and Kasamda could only agree. Riding with the wind in his hair was a feeling that was surpassed only by listening to the screams of those he or his men killed.
The Witch-King had given a general location to the overseer, and they were trying to find it, but also it was said, he would use his powers to show them the way. Kasamda knew him to be divine, he was ageless after all, yet he doubted the Witch-King’s powers were sufficient to do such so far from the capital. But his doubts had disappeared when they’d come upon the trail earlier in the day.
True to his word, the Witch-King had somehow healed the land and painted a bright line of healthy trees and grass that matched the trail of the fugitives, so he and his men had thrust spurs into the horse’s flanks, and urged them to speed to hunt their prey down.
As Kasamda crested a long slope slightly ahead of his men, he couldn’t believe his luck. I am truly blessed by the gods, he thought, for there below him in the middle of plain on the trail was the fugitive. It was obviously him for he matched the description given by the overseer. The armour design was antiquated, and certainly not of this realm. It shone brightly in the dim light, and he laughed. This couldn’t have been any easier.
Kasamda readied to order his lancers forward to run the warrior down, but to his disappointment, the man who had now seen them sank to his hands and knees in apparent defeat. Dammit, he thought, there goes some of the fun, but more would still be had. Yes, to claim the reward he just had to bring him back alive, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pull a few fingernails on the way.
He raised his hand. A small company of twenty of his men trotted forward in response, urging their horses down the gentle slope, to surround the man. Their lances were raised for he’d made sure they knew to kill this man was not an option unless they wanted their own head on a lance as well.
As he watched, the warrior slowly got to his feet. He wasn’t close enough to hear, but he could imagine the pleas for mercy spilling from the man’s lips. Kasamda shielded his eyes from the weak sun which was irritating him more than usual, and wondered why so many of his men were dismounting in such a strange fashion. But then the sound of horses whinnying in terror reached him, accompanied by cries of men in mortal pain.
‘Don’t kill him!’ he shouted. ‘Whatever you do, don’t kill him!’ With that, he raised his hand and signalled for his remaining men to follow him down the slope.
This was going to be even more entertaining if the warrior put up a fight. As he rode nearer, he realised in disbelief that none of his men were in the saddle anymore. In fact, the only man now standing stood in a suit of shining armour that seemed to have shed the blood that must have been splashed upon it.
Kasamda couldn’t believe his eyes.
The warrior just stood there surrounded by a pile of dead horses and twisted men, a sword held loosely in each hand by his side. His head was down with the sun casting a strange light on his face, though how that could be when the sun was at his back was not quite right.
Twenty of his men, good men. Damn, he wouldn’t have thought it possible. A well-trained man on horseback at one with his mount was worth two or three men on foot, and yet, this warrior had killed twenty making a mockery of the odds. If he hadn’t witnessed it, he would have thought it impossible.
He stopped his horse, as a cold hand gripped his insides. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, turning to the man on his left. ‘Take another forty men, capture this warrior, and don’t make a mess of it as those other fools did!’
The sergeant nodded, lifted his arm with two fingers raised then cantered forward. He held his lance lowered but reversed so the haft could be used to knock the man down. The two companies followed suit, taking the lead of their sergeant, not wanting to follow their erstwhile comrades to the grave.
Kasamda relaxed a little. He’d known the sergeant for close to ten years, a tough man and an experienced lancer. He would approach slowly to within fifteen paces, then spur his horse forward in surprise, the haft of the lance with the weight of the charging horse behind it would floor this warrior, armoured or no. Then, however skilled, the warrior would be stunned and helpless whilst they bound him.
Having lost twenty comrades to this man, he would make sure he took more than the few fingernails he’d promised himself to appease the hurt pride of his men.
The sun broke through the clouds, and he sighed in relief, its warmth banishing the coldness he’d felt. This would be a good day after all, he was sure of it.
-----
Taran’s vision was blurred, and his breath came in short gasps as he tried to keep up with Maya. Rakan had initially led the way, but shortly into their flight, a new order seemed to have naturally asserted itself.
Maya had hunted her whole life, so had decisively taken the lead. Her trail craft was unbelievable. It didn’t matter where they ran, across a plain, a valley, or through the woods such as they passed through now, she chose without pause a route that followed game trails, natural breaks or paths without ever deviating from their direction of flight.
Rakan, having been so effectively replaced, gruffly announced he would watch their trail for any signs of pursuit, whilst Taran took the centre.
Taran was rather happy with the change, because he couldn’t help but appreciate Maya’s agile and fluid movement through the trees, and it made him feel like he chased a creature of the woods itself. However, there was a downside to Maya leading, and that was the unrelenting pace. Taran was strong, he knew he was from all those successive years of smithying and then fighting, but as he called out for Maya to stop, his heart hammered painfully in his chest, and he realised his stamina for running distances was nowhere near hers.
Maya responded to his call, and turned with her hands on hips, looking at him from under her tangled hair.
Taran felt his heart beat faster again, but this time not from the exercise. That kiss she’d given him. Had there been anything in it, beyond sharing the elation and sheer relief that they had survived a close encounter with death?
She smiled at him, a soft smile that lifted the corners of lips that Taran remembered tasted so sweet, and lifted her hand, unconsciously brushing her hair back behind an ear.
Taran wasn’t sure his heart would slow down as he noted for the first time the defined line of her jaw, and the pulse in her neck, before her ungovernable hair promptly fell back over her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ Maya said, noting Taran struggling to catch his breath. ‘You should have called out sooner. The problem is, when I run, I often lose myself in thought by imagining how beautiful all the land could be.‘ As she spoke, she reached out toward a small sapling, struggling in the grey half-light. It was weak and twisted, having gained little sustenance from the rotting, dank soil. Maya held its slender trunk and moments later, the tree started growing taller and stronger, branches thickening. Suddenly blossom erupted all over, and she looked on in delight at her handiwork.
Taran stood watching, mesmerised by this display.
‘You see,’ she said. ‘Imagine if the whole forest looked like this, the whole land, everyone would be so blessed, so gifted.’
Taran nodded mutely. He’d known many women, of different shapes and sizes, and was fortunate because most had been beautiful in some way or another, at least to the eye. Maya wouldn’t usually have been his type. She was tall, almost as much as he, whereas shorter women were usually his preference. Her looks were … he couldn’t quite put a word to it, but then one came to mind, exotic. Yes, she didn’t really look like the kingdom folk. There was an olive colour to what little skin he could see under the filth, her hair the darkest black where it wasn’t covered with dust and dirt from the trail.
Taran realised he was staring and looked around. ‘Where’s our fellow fugitive?’ he asked, and they listened, and soon heard a crashing getting closer.
‘My guess is that’s either an angry bear or perhaps a wild boar, or maybe, just maybe, that’s Rakan. He’s not exactly the stealthiest person I’ve ever known,’ joked Taran, ‘nor the subtlest either,’ and Maya laughed softly.
Rakan puffed into view. ‘What are you two smiling at?’ he asked, as he crashed to a halt, breathing heavily.
‘I won’t bore you with the answer,’ Taran replied straight-faced, and Maya’s laugh rang out like music, before she covered her mouth with her hand.
‘You youngsters should show more respect,’ Rakan grumbled, and swung the pack from his back to pull out a water skin. ‘Let’s take a break. While we need to move fast, if we don’t keep our strength up, we’ll be useless if we need to fight.’ He looked at Maya. ‘To be honest, I’m struggling. You may have healed my wounds old and new, but you didn’t make me any younger.’
They all sat to catch their breath as they chewed on dried meats and drank sparingly.
‘There’s no one following us as yet,’ said Rakan shortly, ‘not that I could see anyhow. Yet while these woods help keep us hidden, it also helps conceal anyone following us as well. We’ll come to the eastern plains in a few days and then we’ll be in the open. After that, a couple more days in some heavy woodland before we need to cross the white river. That’s when we start getting close to the Forelorn mountains. Crossing the river will be a problem. If there are troops stationed at the bridges when we arrive, we are going to have a fight we might not be able to win on our hands.’
‘If that’s the case, we could always swim instead.’ Taran pointed out.
Rakan shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t help. The problem is that it’s called the White River because it flows so fast from the mountains. It’s wide, full of rocks and I doubt anyone could swim across without being swept away and getting their heads caved in. We have to hope a bridge is clear, and if not, then we’ll have no choice but to try and force a crossing if there aren’t too many soldiers.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Taran. He stood and walked over to Maya then reached out a hand and pulled her smoothly to her feet when she took it.
Maya leaned in close for a brief moment. ‘If this wasn’t a race for our lives, I’d enjoy you chasing me,’ she said quietly, then turned, put on her pack and started to run.
‘Close your mouth, boy,’ laughed Rakan, then patted him on the shoulder before giving a gentle shove to set him in motion. He shook his head and smiled as he saw Taran set off after Maya. Maybe it was him getting old, or the fact he no longer wore the amulet, but it pleased him to see the two of them warm to one another. The gods only knew how little time they had left, so if they found some good in this world before their lives were taken, he was happy for them.
He knew they had only the slimmest chance of survival, for the odds were too stacked against them. The forces the Witch-King would send against this girl and the killers of his beloved Rangers were beyond anything they could overcome. Yet, Rakan wasn’t used to defeat and to have stayed alive this long, meant all his enemies were dead behind him. So, he wouldn’t give up until the last breath left his body, and thanks to t
he girl he’d kill a few more of the bastards sent to kill him, before he left the land of the living to whatever came next.
He pushed himself into a jog, keeping the others just in sight, then looked back over his shoulder at different times to see if anyone was following, but the trail remained empty. So far so good. Perhaps he should start thinking of how to live as opposed to how he was going to die.
He moved onward, enjoying the strength in his limbs, all his aches and pains gone thanks to the magic of the girl.
Yes, perhaps when he next met Darkon or more likely Lazard with his two good arms, the outcome might be different.
-----
Alano had lived with the agony of being possessed, of having to continually fight the daemons whim for what seemed years beyond reason. During this time, he’d taken so many lives to sate its hunger, to keep it at bay, and to retain his sanity while he served Daleth.
There were times when he awoke covered in blood to find the cold, shrivelled corpse of a serving girl bloodied in his bed without even the memory of committing the horrific things that had been done, and he would weep in regret and sometimes try to kill himself or kill the king. Yet, each time the daemon would stop him.
There’s was a strange symbiosis. Alano’s iron will holding sway for the most during the day, yet the daemon at times taking control during the night. It demanded blood for the life it contained, to keep it nourished as well as to keep Alano young, and he would reluctantly or at times unknowingly concede that control.
Yet now for the first time since that fateful battle fifty years past, he called upon it of his own free will, called it forth to join him.
Alano had anticipated what was coming before the final words left Daleth’s lips. The way he’d instructed his men to arm themselves, moved away to the dais, and then looked him in the eye had given away his intentions. He’d started planning before the death sentence was even passed.