Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  The lesson of the day had been how to fight against the odds, two, three or four against one, and how to emerge victorious at the end with a trail of bodies behind you. Now here he was, one man with a wooden practice sword surrounded by a hundred of the best fighting men in the realm, soon to trial for a place in the Rangers, trained by him.

  Still, irrespective of the numbers arrayed against him, the underlying principle of going on the attack before the enemy coordinated, to dictate the fight and not be dictated to, was the same.

  Alano called upon the daemon to lend him its strength and speed as his wooden sword swept up between the legs of a soldier in front of him, whose weapon was raised to salute his king. He caught the falling blade before the man even began to yell, and cleaved it through the back of his neck a mere heartbeat after Daleth spoke the last word.

  As the man fell, blood sprayed over those nearest, and instinctively they moved back, shocked by the sudden violence. Alano dropped the sword, whipped the man’s dagger and a dirk from his belt before he hit the ground then charged into the men in front of him, eyes shining so brightly that they fell back in horror as he bore down upon them.

  He plunged the dirk into the belly of the nearest man having sidestepped his sword and twisted it before cutting to the side, so the man’s entrails flopped out like snakes around his ankles. Alano kicked his falling body back into the men behind him.

  Alano and the daemon fought as one. He’d never felt so fast, so strong as he pushed deep into the mass of men.

  -----

  Daleth stood upon the dais, watching as Alano charged right into the midst of the soldiers he’d spent years training, without pause or hesitation, armed only with a dagger and a long dirk.

  It was, without doubt, the most stupid move he’d ever seen Alano make. He should have kept the man’s sword, fought a defensive action, and taken maybe ten or a dozen down until the weight of the others overwhelmed him. Yet Alano never made foolish moves in combat and what seemed at first like a suicidal berserk rage without thought, suddenly showed itself as the most brutal strategy Daleth had ever seen.

  He’d called the men close, and they were packed side by side. As Alano attacked them, they had little room to lift, let alone swing the long weapons they now held, whereas Alano’s choice of weapons were simple extensions of his hands.

  The men in front tried to step back to give themselves space to defend themselves, and the men behind tried to surge forward to get to Alano even though most couldn’t see him. This chaos of pushing and shoving served only to cramp their ability to fight effectively.

  Daleth watched open-mouthed as his men fell like trees in a storm. He could barely see Alano as the man fought with inhuman efficiency, changing direction every strike, using a falling body to shield his back as he turned away, or the thick pillars that supported the castle above as natural defence to protect his flanks.

  There was even more to it than Daleth first realised. Wonder almost overtook the chill he was starting to feel. Alano’s blows were not just to kill; they were to maim, to inflict terrible bloody damage. As guts fell to the floor, as blood sprayed from opened arteries, flailing men disrupted their comrade’s attacks, had them slipping in the growing pools of blood, and yet Alano always moved on a firm footing.

  The noise of the screaming, dying men was deafening. At least fifty of the hundred men who had been standing, now lay upon the floor. Most were already dead, but others tried to stuff entrails back into their bodies or to stem the heavy flow of blood from devastating wounds.

  Yet he noticed that Alano was starting to slow. However skilfully he moved, blades had found their mark and whilst still deadly, Alano was losing strength.

  Now, as more men died and the fight lengthened, the remaining soldiers had more space with which to wield their longer weapons.

  Alano’s winning strategy had now almost defeated itself.

  However, Alano was nothing but consummate in his skill and awareness of the changing tide, so as he drove his dagger up through the throat and into the brain of one of the men, he caught the sword from the man’s lifeless hands and started to move backwards. The remaining men, now numbering about thirty made space between themselves and tried to move around to encircle him.

  A dozen of the men had taken shields from the walls and behind this additional protection were pushing forward, endeavouring to deflect Alano’s blows whilst their comrades tried to strike. Even so, they didn’t last long.

  Daleth lifted his blade, hefting the greatsword, no longer sure the one hundred would be enough.

  There were now only a dozen men left, but they had Alano back against the far wall of the hall. The whole scene shone red like something from the nine hells, and Daleth could only imagine this was a semblance of all those years ago when Alano had first become possessed. Now, as then, the sun globes had been splashed in gore, and the light they shed was red, the red of blood.

  The light in Alano’s eyes was starting to flicker and fade, and one of his legs gave way.

  The surrounding men dashed forward, wanting to be the one to strike the killing blow, but it had been a ruse or at least mostly, for Alano surged to his feet striking about him. The soldiers fell, while only two managed to move back still alive. Yet now, Alano fell to both knees, and this time there was no doubt as to why.

  A shortsword had impaled him just above the right hip, exiting from his back. His left arm hung useless and bloody from his shoulder, and he bore at least a dozen other minor wounds. The blood now pooling around him was his, yet still he grasped a sword in his right hand.

  One of the remaining men edged forward shield raised, weapon extended, only for Alano’s sword to sweep out cutting both feet from under him. As the man fell, Alano thrust the sword into the man’s throat. Still, as he did so, the weapon came from his grasp, and he sank back into a kneeling position, his breath rasping from his lungs, bloody froth bubbling from his mouth.

  The remaining soldier slowly circled Alano to cut him down from behind.

  Daleth raised his voice. ‘Hold!’ he commanded, then made his way across the floor, every step in the gore of Alano’s dance of death. He moved alongside the soldier. ‘You survived,’ he said, laughing. The man smiled shakily in reply as they turned to look at Alano. His head was down, bloody spittle dripping to the floor.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Daleth. ‘I know, it’s Ryal,’ he said before the man could answer. ‘Of course, I know who you are. We will never forget this day you and I, will we Ryal?’

  Ryal shook his head in relief. ‘No my king, as long as I live, never!’

  ‘Alano,’ said Daleth, and squatted beside his almost dead general. ‘Can you hear me, Alano? You are soon to die, you who could have lived forever, seen things men could only dream of, but instead you are soon to die. Why did you lie to me about not knowing Kalas? Did you hope he would succeed in his quest to kill me, and stand by as his blade found my heart? An army of thousands protects me, and I am skilled myself beyond mere mortals. He has no hope of succeeding; surely you know this?’

  ‘Who is he?’ demanded Daleth and dropped to his knees. The blood stained his clothes, but he didn’t care as he grasped Alano’s shoulders and shook him. ‘Who was, no, who is Kalas? Why lose your life trying to hide your knowledge of someone you haven’t seen in fifty years?’

  Alano laughed weakly then, blood foaming at his mouth. ‘You want to know who he is? He is the one, the only one who could ever beat me. You think I am skilled, yet at my best, I was never his equal. Compared to him, you are nothing, for he will kill you in less than a heartbeat. When he faces you, you will die and your kingdom with you. You should be afraid, Daleth,’ he coughed, blood spraying, but Daleth just leaned even closer, listening. ‘Do you know why you should be afraid? Because Kalas is coming, coming for you!’

  Alano’s head dropped, his chin resting on his chest, his voice so soft. ‘To kill you or die trying,’ he murmured. ‘That was my oath fifty years ago,’ he c
oughed weakly. ‘I am content to die now, knowing he will seek to accomplish what I wasn’t able to do.’ Then he fell silent without the strength to say anymore.

  Daleth’s heart hammered, his hands shaking. He looked around at what Alano had done and knew the truth of it. If somehow he ever faced Kalas on the field of battle, he wouldn’t have a chance, not if he was alone.

  ‘Did you know,’ Daleth said, looking up at Ryal. ‘Alano here is over seventy years old? He fought against me the day I took the throne. I spared him for I had never seen someone so skilled with a blade. I gave him his life, a life immortal, and all I asked is that he serve me, loyally, honestly.’

  Ryal shook his head, wondering whether his king was telling the truth. ‘No, I had no idea,’ he said. ‘It’s unbelievable. I have never seen his like; his skill is beyond compare. If this Kalas is as good as he says, we must ensure Kalas dies without ever getting close to you.’

  Daleth turned to Alano. ‘You’ve kept me company all these years; you shouldn’t have lied to me. Fifty years you kept your oath, and we are about to start the greatest war in two generations, the blood would have flowed, you could have killed thousands, and drunk the life from a thousand more.’

  Daleth watched as Alano fell back, the blood flowing from his wounds, saw his face grow paler with every moment, and knew that soon Alano’s heart would soon stop.

  An idea formed in his mind.

  ‘Daemon,’ he said softly. ‘Alano seems keen to die. What about you, do you want to simply end, to go back to the nine hells yourself or fade into whatever oblivion awaits you? I understand why Alano wanted to betray me, but not you. If I spare your life once more, would you swear again to serve me, do anything for me, kill your beloved brother Kalas if you had to? Is Alano’s eternal desire for revenge worth you dying for?’

  Alano’s eyes shone a weak red then, and the voice that came from his lips wasn’t Alano’s and the sound still made the flesh crawl on Daleth’s neck.

  ‘It is true, we indeed withheld the truth, but I was still bound by oath and even now could not have killed you. Spare me again,’ rasped the voice, ‘and I will stand by your side to fight Kalas and my daemon brother who resides within. But allow me to have dominance, let me take total control of this body and mind. I would serve you unfettered by this mortal’s conscience.’

  There were but moments left to make a decision Daleth knew. The daemon’s oath had lasted fifty years, and it seemed that the lie was due to Alano’s love for Kalas and this unholy being’s kinship to another daemon. Yet if he still had its loyalty and it was willing to face and kill Kalas if the need arose, then it was a risk worth taking.

  Daleth stood and turned to Ryal.

  ‘Do you serve me without question, without doubt, without regret?’

  Ryal’s eyes opened wide at the question, fanatical fervour shining within. ‘Of course, my king.’ He knelt in fealty. ‘I live to fight and die for you!’

  ‘I’m glad you said that, it makes this so much easier,’ muttered Daleth, with a hint of regret. With that, he swiftly plunged his dirk into the side of Ryal’s neck, then pushed him down, so the blood from the gaping wound flowed into Alano’s mouth.

  The light in Alano’s eyes shone and grew brighter, and the sucking sounds he made as he drank Ryal’s blood made Daleth’s stomach churn.

  He spun away, and walked through the gore, blood, and entrails that covered the floor, then looked back over his shoulder at the horrific scene and wondered for a moment if this was what the nine hells would look like.

  ‘When you feel able to, come find me!’ called Daleth as he mounted the winding stone stairs.

  As he reached the landing above, he came across two guards, swords drawn, hands shaking and Daleth realised they had heard the commotion but had likely been too scared to investigate despite their amulets. His immediate thought was to kill them there and then, but he paused, staying his hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, all is well,’ he reassured them both with a smile, and he saw their shoulders sag with relief. ‘I need you to do something for me.’

  They saluted, anxious to please.

  ‘Your general, Alano, is downstairs, find him and tell him I sent you, and that it’s time to eat.’

  With that, he turned away, a wicked smile on his face and laughed at his own joke. Cowardice should always be punished, and what better way than to punish them than by gifting them to his daemon.

  -----

  Kalas stood surrounded by the bodies of the horses and men he’d slain. He couldn’t believe his luck for they’d appeared to have been under orders to capture him alive, for not a single one of the men had a blade drawn, or lance lowered as they’d approached, merely expecting him to cower in fear and surrender.

  They’d been lulled into thinking him subdued when they had seen him on his knees, his hands in the dust, yet he’d simply been drying the sweat from his hands, the better to grip the handles of his swords in the heat.

  He’d cut the first twenty men down, and all the time they’d been hindered by their orders, not inflicting a single wound upon him.

  The daemon in his mind crowed in delight at the blood spilt around him, and he found himself revelling in the bloodshed as well. Wasn’t there a time once when he’d felt regret at taking lives? he pondered, but the thought drifted away before it found purchase.

  He looked up the hill to see another forty-odd men approaching. This time their lances were lowered but reversed, to knock him from his feet, to stun then subdue him. Again they would pay for this foolishness with their lives. His slaughter of the previous men had not been random, and he stood amongst a circle of dead horses and men, the ground slick and slippery from the amount of blood that had been spilt.

  He stood still, arms loosely at his sides, the daemon’s voice soothing in his mind, telling him this was what he’d been born to do, had trained to do, to be the perfect killer of men. That this was just another step toward his destiny, and he couldn’t fail.

  The horses slowly picked their way through the bodies and were skittish at the overwhelming smell of blood. All the while, Kalas waited patiently and identified the sergeant who would soon be the first to charge in an attempt to knock him from his feet. He sheathed his swords and turned his back as encouragement for them to make their move, then nimbly leapt up onto the body of a horse that lay atop another. The daemon enhanced his senses, so he could almost feel the beating of the hearts of the men and beasts upon which they rode.

  It was a sensual feeling, and it washed over him instead of doubt or fear. His heartbeat quickened as he anticipated hot blood splashing over his face, and the life to be drunk from still twitching bodies.

  He heard the horses as the men urged them forward, and the curses of the men as the animals slipped and foundered. He turned to see the sergeant's horse slither in the mire before going down, pitching the sergeant over its neck. The men either side frantically pulled their horses away left and right so as not to trample him. Kalas leapt down then and swept up the sergeant's fallen lance. As the man struggled to rise with the wind knocked from him, Kalas drove it through his body and pinned him to the ground. The man screamed in agony, and his fingers dug furrows in the bloody soil.

  Kalas’ swords seemed to leap into his hands, and he threw his head back and laughed, not realising the sound that came forth wasn’t his own but that of the daemon howling, a sound from the pits of hell itself. The surrounding horses whinnied and reared at the unearthly noise, and Kalas’ eyes shone red, flickering from the flames deep within. The men’s voices rose in fearful shouts and suddenly into their midst, he charged.

  The horses panicked and tried to shy away, twisting and fighting against their rider’s frantic attempts to control them. As the soldiers were high on horseback above him, Alano started to butcher the horses. He hammered his swords down upon equine necks, slashed open their throats, or cut their forelegs from under them.

  He twisted and spun and used their bodies as shields, so
that for most of the men, he couldn’t be seen. Horses fell as did their riders and his swords did what they were supposed to do, had been forged to do all those years ago, they ended life after life.

  As the men around him fell, orders were forgotten, and lance points thrust toward him. Soon some started finding their mark, slowing him, hindering him, yet it was too little too late, for the last rider went down even as the man thrust his lance deep into Kalas’ thigh.

  He knelt, the agony of the lance in his leg taking his breath away, but the daemon helped him deal with the pain. He wrapped his hands around the haft and wrenched it free, his blood spraying into the air. Through the pain, he looked up at the hill to see way over a hundred men sitting in shocked silence at what they had just witnessed. He needed them to stay there a little longer.

  Kalas stood again, moving as steadily as possible to the one man still alive, the sergeant. He pulled the lance from the man’s body, then hauled him upright, feeling blood splash over his boots. The sergeant was almost unconscious, but it mattered not. In full view of everyone on the hill, Alano tore the man’s helm off, and leaning forward sank his teeth deep into the man’s neck, drinking his blood, feeling wounds heal and his strength return in a rush.

  There was no way he could defeat the others, not now. They would have seen what he could do if they tried to subdue him. Next time they would charge from a distance, run him down, spear him through, orders be damned.

  The daemon was now urging him to run, seeing past its own bloodlust to the folly of taking this fight even further. ‘Run,’ it screeched, ‘save us.’

  Kalas shook his head. He couldn’t defeat so many men, not now. Now it was his time to die.

  -----

  Kasamda sat upon his mount and looked aghast at the scene below him. Sixty of his men butchered by one man. No, not a man, not even close, a daemon for what else could he be but daemon spawn.

  He remembered his father's tale of when years before he’d helped conquer this land, riding with the Witch-King, and how in the last battle, the Ember King’s guard had ridden out to confront their invading army in a final hopeless battle.