Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  He’d decided to keep Alano close by as the army rode and marched east, leaving behind the city and lands he’d called home for so long, along with every civilian however high their status. They thought themselves lucky that they would escape the horrors of war, not realising that starvation would rob them of their lives just as quickly if not quicker.

  Alano, the daemon, now a perfect remorseless killer, sworn to protect and obey him. So why did he now feel some doubt over his decision to allow the daemon full control? Without question, he didn’t doubt its loyalty. The daemon may have kept its knowledge of Kalas from him, but it hadn’t turned against him. Perhaps it was the absence of Alano’s voice, his occasional joke or even half-smile that Daleth regretted, and he wondered if he’d gained anywhere near as much as what had been lost.

  True, Alano had always tried to fulfil his vow and kill him. However, he’d also become invaluable, and worked incredibly hard at whatever role he was assigned, immersing himself in strategic matters almost as a way of dealing with his possession and the insanity it would otherwise have brought.

  Over the years Daleth had promoted him to be his closest advisor and general, and his diligence in training the Ranger’s had been priceless. Had it not been for the daemon, the circumstances of their meeting, and his vow, perhaps he and Alano could have been friends.

  Now he was reduced to a bloodthirsty pet. Still, Daleth knew he would be irreplaceable in battle, for that was where he would come into his own, and he was a bodyguard without peer.

  His officers rode a little further behind, not wanting to ride too close to the daemon, and Daleth missed the camaraderie that the start of a campaign should have brought out between him and the men. He knew they cursed the daemon. There was no way details of the slaughter in the training halls could be contained, and while Daleth had no need to explain the deaths of anyone, still there was fear, distrust, and anger directed toward the daemon that hadn’t been so prevalent before.

  Daleth sighed. ‘Keep the pace,’ he ordered Alano, and the daemon turned its red eyes upon him.

  ‘Yes, my king,’ it rasped.

  Daleth tugged on the reins and turned back to be with the officers. They cheered as he rode into their midst and his mood lifted. He greeted them by name, making wagers on who would kill the most, who amongst them might die first, and how many women they would enjoy while out on campaign. It was exhilarating, and it almost drowned Daleth’s feeling of hunger and growing weakness. He was still stronger than any mortal could dream of, yet this land had given almost everything, and this conquest was coming none too soon.

  Only this morning new grey hairs had shown on his head, and he’d used dye to cover its presence, then daubed his face in war paint so that it wasn’t obvious. He couldn’t wait to feel the overwhelming rush of life flooding his body as his men conquered the Freestates and enslaved those within, spreading misery and suffering beneath their boots even as the land began to nourish him.

  He shook his head, clearing his thoughts and turned his head back to his men. Standing again in his saddle, he drew his sword, lifting it above his head, and waved it in the morning light, roaring his battle cry.

  Thousands of throats roared it back, as thousands of raised swords saluted in reply. He revelled in their adulation before galloping his horse to the front of the column, then made it rear, loving the theatrics, knowing he made a heroic figure.

  As he continued riding, he thought about one of his agents across the border.

  The two kingdoms, whilst engaged in trade all these years, hadn’t allowed anyone other than a handful of emissaries to enter their lands. All trade and exchange of goods was handled in the pass between the opposing citadels. Therefore, for his agents to reach the Freestates, they had to attempt the deadly crossing at Ember Town. He’d tried with difficulty to send so many for nigh on forty years, yet few had made it, and even fewer had returned with intelligence.

  But he knew of one who remained, utterly dedicated. The attack on the Freestates wouldn’t just come from the outside, but the inside as well.

  Of course, he could have just relied on his military might without the need for subterfuge, yet Daleth believed in perfect preparation, and wars could be won from within as well as from without.

  How long till battle was joined, he pondered. Maybe twenty days to unite all his forces then perhaps a dozen more to bring them into position, at which time a hundred thousand men would hit the pass like a hammer blow. His siege engines would bring the walls down and then nothing would stop his conquest of the Freestates and the lands that lay beyond.

  For a moment, he wondered where Kalas was, and that girl Maya with the two deserters. It was galling that he’d yet to hear anything. He made a mental note to contact the garrison overseer, and to spirit travel later to see whether he could find their whereabouts himself.

  The problem was, the weaker he felt, the less his power in the spirit world became. The last couple of times had left him with such a splitting headache it had lasted all day. Tonight though, headache or not, he would travel the paths.

  Daleth turned to Alano and saw its red eyes were upon him. ‘With the coming of such death,’ it offered, ‘comes the flow of such life,’ and its tongue licked its lips in anticipation.

  Daleth could only agree. Perhaps conversation with the beast wouldn’t be quite so bad after all.

  -----

  Kalas had been frustrated at the delay caused by the lancers, but now he was so close to the three fugitives. He continued to push himself hard, but the daemon in his mind still distracted him as it revelled in his recent bloodletting.

  A few days before, following his withdrawal into the woods, he’d waited for the lancers to attack or move on, but while he sat concealed within the shadows, they’d done neither. As the sun had set, they’d made camp on the hill overlooking his refuge, settled down to eat, and no doubt drank some bitter campaign wine to banish the chill of the night and the thought of the quarry they hunted.

  Kalas wasn’t blind to his mortality even if at times the daemon made him feel invincible. If this amount of men made a concerted effort to kill him at once, he would die without question, and thus he needed to either lose them or persuade them he wasn’t worth the risk.

  He’d chosen the latter.

  So, that night he’d waited as the stars slowly climbed into the sky, shining weakly when the clouds didn’t cover them. Then he’d waited some more. To help with his plan, he’d stripped from his silver armour down to his dark shirt and trousers then taken handfuls of rotting mulch from the forest floor and rubbed it into any exposed skin.

  Then, in the early hours, once the campfires on the hill above had burned low, he’d crawled from the forest, wary of sentries. As he made his way up the hill, he’d seen two slumped against their lances. Why post more when they were leagues inside kingdom lands, and they were the hunters, not the prey? Foolishly they still wore their helms, which hindered not only vision, but more importantly their hearing in the dead of night, when that was the most useful sense.

  Kalas had snaked his way closer and closer until he was a few steps from the first sentry. He could see him clearly, not just because he was outlined against the lighter sky, but because he felt the man’s heart pumping and saw the blood glowing red in his veins.

  The man had stamped his feet, turning around more in boredom than for any reason, and Kalas had silently risen from the floor behind him. One hand jerked the man’s head back, as the other that held his dirk, had drawn its razor-sharp blade across the sentry’s throat. Kalas had quietly lowered him to the floor, turning the body onto its side, so it looked like the sentry was sleeping.

  He unconsciously licked the blood from his fingers, savouring the taste.

  ‘More,’ purred the daemon, and Kalas had crept around the perimeter on his belly, taking his time and dispatching the second sentry in the same way.

  Tents were set in neat rows. There were about thirty tents Kalas estimated, so around three
hundred men. Each tent had a campfire down to its embers near the entrance. The large tents had helped conceal his presence for they muffled any sounds from inside or out, creating noise as they rippled in the soft night breeze.

  He’d approached the first tent and peered through the crack between the entrance flaps. The soldiers slept with their feet toward the canvas, and as expected, every man was asleep. He’d drawn his thin-bladed dagger before carefully entering. Then, one by one, as he moved between them, he’d driven the blade through the eyes, or the side of the men’s head into the brain.

  In less than thirty heartbeats, ten men lay butchered, and the daemon had screeched in exultation in his head.

  Cautiously he’d then moved on to the second tent, and repeated the slaughter, then a third and a fourth. The daemon had crowed, cried out for more, greedy to feast on their life. So as he’d slit the throat of the last man in the fifth tent, he’d drunk his fill, savouring the salty flavour that now tasted divine.

  But his luck finally ran out, for as he stepped from the tent, there stood a soldier directly opposite, relieving himself onto a campfire. Despite being half asleep, the sight of Kalas, dagger in hand, face covered in blood made the man cry out in horror.

  Kalas had lunged, puncturing the soldier’s throat with his blade, and as the man fell, he’d brought the tent down behind him. Men had started shouting and cursing, and Kalas knew his time was up.

  He’d hurried back the way he came, but instead of leaving, he turned toward one of the picket lines holding the horses. Men stumbled from their tents to investigate the growing noise, but escape was now the goal, so Kalas avoided them as much as possible and only had to kill two who stepped into his path. Fortunately, some of the mounts were saddled for an early morning scout. So, he’d taken advantage, having secured the girth, and swung up into the saddle of the nearest, least nervous horse.

  Kalas swept his blade down severing the picket lines, and howled, letting the daemon's voice scream into the dark of the night and the hearts of the awakening men. The horses all scattered down the hill as Kalas fought his mount into obedience, then left the camp swiftly behind, seeking the sanctuary of darkness. Behind him, angry voices turned from alarm to panic when the slaughter that had just taken place in their midst became apparent.

  As Kalas had ridden down the hill, he’d wondered if he should stay in the sanctuary of the trees or get back on the trail of the three fugitives. The strength of the newly fed daemon had flooded his body, and whilst it was night, he could see as if it were day, a blood-red day. There were several more hours till daylight, but with his mind made up, he swiftly reclaimed his armour, remounted, and recommenced pursuit of his quarry. He doubted the lancers would have the stomach to come after him, and even if so, he was on horseback, whereas most of them would now be on foot.

  Now, after a couple of days hard riding, having given the horse its head, he’d entered some thick woodland.

  He was so close!

  He knelt, studying the trail. Yes, the three fugitives had passed this way only recently, and the new healthy plant growth showed their direction of travel, due east toward the Forelorn mountains and the Freestates border.

  He was about to continue again when something else caught his eye, and he moved to the north, pushing through the undergrowth. Night was approaching, yet he could now see a much broader trail running parallel, and the tracks indicated at least a dozen men had recently passed this way.

  He had to hurry.

  Kalas wasn’t sure how the three fugitives planned on getting across the Forelorn mountains if they got there, but he wasn’t going to give them a chance, and no one was going to come between him and his quarry.

  The daemon in his mind agreed with his every thought. Or was it that they were the daemon’s thoughts? Surely it wasn’t his idea to hunt down three people he didn’t even know just for the taste of the woman’s gift? But the daemon inside assured him that it was indeed his idea, and mollified, Kalas pushed on, unaware that his will was barely his own any longer.

  -----

  Astren sat quietly outside the entrance to Lord Tristan’s throne room with his head bowed, fighting to stay awake. He’d been fast asleep in his villa when the summons to attend his king had arrived, and whenever Tristan called, Astren had to answer, and quickly. Having only taken the time to throw on a fresh robe, Astren was now at the Royal Palace within the hour of being called.

  The doors opened, and the captain of the Freemantle guards stepped through and beckoned Astren to follow. He rose, moving behind Anthain whose bulk obscured the view ahead.

  Astren looked around, inspired as he always was when he attended the palace. Everything in the Freestates was geared around opulence, so unsurprisingly the throne room was vast and reflected the vast wealth enjoyed by the kingdom's rulers. Their footsteps sounded loud as they walked upon polished heart stone, between carved pillars that reached up to the gabled ceiling. Long banners and tapestries hung on the walls, depicting not famous battles or heroic deaths, but rather the god of greed. Gold and jewels dripped from between his fingers, raining down upon the Freestates in approval of their pursuit of wealth, the noblest pursuit of them all.

  Even Anthain looked like a walking tribute to greed, thought Astren. His armour, although functional, was inlaid with gold. His sword hilt intricate and fashionable with a large gem on its pommel.

  Astren looked down at his sandaled feet and his blood-red robes, plain and simple other than the colour, and knew that Tristan would make his usual comment about him looking like a beggar rather than a courtier in the wealthiest realm to have ever existed. But it was all part of Astren’s facade of misdirection, something he’d adopted when he was younger.

  As they reached Tristan, who was poring over a giant model of the citadel, Anthain cleared his throat.

  Tristan looked up, bright blue eyes flickering over Astren, and a frown settled upon his brow. ‘You can bring a man out of peasantry, but not the peasantry out the man,’ Tristan declared.

  Astren might have felt the sting of an insult from another, but this exchange was long established, and there was a hint of warmth to Tristan’s words. Once, years past, Tristan had cast him aside, but now he valued Astren’s counsel above many others. Still, he was as fickle as any king.

  Astren smiled back. ‘True, but what does that say of the king who seeks the advice of a peasant?’

  Anthain glowered at Astren, but Tristan laughed loudly and with good humour. ‘What indeed would that say about the king?’ he mused, but then he became business-like.

  ‘The gods smiled upon us again this day. We’ve just learned that five hundred spearmen from the desert tribes and as many archers from the people of the Eyre fortuitously came to our city, because of Anthain’s hard work, I am sure.’

  Astren whistled softly. ‘That is good news. Archers are what we need, them and swordsmen. The spearmen won’t be so good on the walls of the citadel, but every man counts.’

  ‘What do you know about fighting?’ boomed Anthain. ‘You are nothing but a seer. A parlour trick merchant who claims he can fly in his dreams. Well, we can all do that. Leave the strategy to the king and I.’ As he said this, he leaned over Astren imposingly, glowering in discontent.

  ‘Now now, Anthain.’ soothed Tristan. ‘He is right should you care to admit it. Even I know spearmen are best deployed on a field of battle, not fighting on the walls of the citadel, and yet every man we can get will further ensure we repel Daleth.’

  Tristan turned to Astren. ‘Anthain here advises the repairs to the citadel are near finished, and we now have nigh on six thousand additional men added to the regular garrison there. He assures me we already have enough to withstand Daleth, which is a good thing for he has left our coffers somewhat empty, but without him organising everything, we would have been lost.‘

  Astren nodded, waiting. He knew Tristan had summoned him here because he wanted something, not just to share this news, and he didn’t wait for more th
an a few heartbeats to hear what for.

  Tristan smiled. ‘I need you to travel the Spirit paths, my friend,’ he said. ‘I would like to know how long we have to finalise our preparations to the full.’

  Astren quailed inside. The king had asked as if there was a choice, yet this was not a request, and the warmth and favour Tristan showed to those around him lasted only right up to the second someone crossed or refused him. Anthain wasn’t here just to offer counsel to the king, to be his bodyguard or general of the kingdom forces, but to deal out swift punishment at the tip of his sword should the king demand. His presence was a veiled threat and a constant one.

  ‘Of course, my king,’ said Astren. ‘It has become ever more dangerous hence I have not tried of late. So many of Daleth’s gifted patrol the Spirit Pathways above his lands, and himself as well at times.’ Yet even as he spoke the words, he knew they fell on deaf ears.

  He walked to a gilded chair on one side of the table and sat down. At his waist were pouches in which he kept some coins, the seal of the royal court and also sleep weed. It was a herb with no taste that when taken, would induce sleep immediately. However, upon awakening, he would unfortunately have a splitting headache. Still, it was the only way he could fulfil his duty in the here and now, which was the king’s expectation.

  As he chewed on a leaf, he saw Tristan and Anthain watch him briefly, but then as his eyes began to close, they turned away back to the maps and messages, and then everything went dark …

  He opened his eyes moments later to find himself looking down at his body, seeing the king and Anthain mere steps away. Astren had learned long ago that for him, spirit travelling wasn’t as simple as staring through a window and spying on who you wanted, looking over shoulders, hearing everything that was said.