Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  To Anthain’s initial shock, Lacyntha revealed she was an agent for Daleth the Witch-King, and although he’d suspected this, and ignored it, the confirmation had still made him feel somewhat sick.

  Yet Lacyntha had reassured him that Daleth’s admiration for him knew no bounds. The Witch-King already saw him as a fellow warrior, and would happily recognise Anthain as a fellow king and ally were he strong enough to seize the crown.

  However, what wasn’t so reassuring, was that Daleth wanted Anthain to prove himself worthy by killing Tristan himself. Then Anthain the new ruler of the Freestates would let Daleth’s army pass through Tristan’s Folly and the Freestates lands to conquer everything that lay beyond.

  Anthain’s first achievement as the new king would be to save the Freestates from Tristan’s reckless plan to fight; save the people, save himself and avoid a costly war.

  Now, all this time later, with less than a month to go till Daleth’s army sought passage, Anthain and all those involved in the planned coup were ready.

  Anthain looked around him as he quickly made his way to the merchant’s quarter. Not that many people were about at this godforsaken hour, except for the eight hundred guards who were waiting for him to lead them.

  The sky was clear and bright, the moon a good omen. Anthain smiled, tomorrow the people of the Freestates would awaken to a new king!

  -----

  Astren fled as fast as he was able and frequently spun around to see if anyone followed, despite knowing that Daleth had stayed behind to watch the spectacle of the girl’s death.

  The forces he’d seen would be at the southern pass in around thirty days, and Astren knew the intelligence regarding the siege engines alone had been worth the risk. Time to bring this news to Tristan and Anthain.

  He flew back over Tristan’s Folly high and fast. He was tempted to take the time to fly down and give the news directly to the citadel commander, but decided he wouldn’t incur Anthain’s anger by circumventing the chain of command, so would tell him first.

  A short while later he flew over the outskirts of Freemantle. The Royal Palace was immediately visible as it shone brightly in the centre of the city. Even at night, its roof of burnished gold reflected the many torches lit around the grounds. It was of course not solid gold, just a very thin leaf, and yet from the moment anyone entered the city, it caught the eye. The palace reflected not only the light but the power of wealth that the Freestates and its ruler enjoyed.

  Astren drifted down, and was about to enter when he saw Anthain leave through the gates and turn toward the merchant quarter. He followed, and was about to project himself, to give Anthain the news on Daleth’s preparedness, when Anthain slipped into an alleyway.

  It was such a strange and furtive move that Astren immediately decided to observe rather than be seen. He hovered at Anthain’s shoulder, then felt foolish and embarrassed as Anthain turned to a wall to empty his bladder.

  Astren started to move away, but just as he did, two of the city guard came cautiously into the alley from the other end, and he instinctively felt that something was amiss.

  He floated there, an unseen voyeur, as he waited for the conversation to finish, and then flew directly back to his body and the king.

  -----

  Daleth floated above the clearing and watched in glee as the three fugitives gave up on trying to escape. To witness their initial blind panic, then the blossoming of hope, only to see it wither when they realised they couldn’t outrun the hunters had been exquisite to behold.

  Even hearing their last words nourished him, and he wished he could project like that damned seer. He would have loved for them to know he was watching their demise, to know he’d orchestrated it to the end.

  The three of them against sixteen of his Rangers. However skilled the two deserters might be, he doubted they’d be able to face just one of his finest, let alone sixteen.

  Suddenly something that had been tugging hidden at the back of his mind came clear.

  Rangers worked in fives; there should only be fifteen.

  His eyes snapped back to the Rangers, casually walking across the darkened clearing, counting. Yes, fifteen. So, why had the girl counted sixteen? Then he saw him, HIM. It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be, but it was.

  Kalas fell upon the rear left flank of the Rangers as silent as a shadow. His silver armour shone like a beacon as did his swords as he clove through the first five men in the blink of an eye.

  Daleth screamed in frustration, and it was almost as if his scream was heard, for the remaining ten reacted in that instant.

  They were his elite, and they turned to face this fury in their midst, that came from the shadows at their moment of victory. They had never known defeat, and they moved as one. As Kalas charged they gave way, fell back, flowed away from him like water, trying to avoid his blades. They recognised him for the danger he was, having been forewarned of his presence, and taught by a daemon themselves.

  Daleth caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Rakan, Taran and Maya flee into the woods, taking advantage of the situation to make their escape again. Daleth screamed every curse he knew but turned his attention back to the spectacle below him.

  He cursed his lack of skill in spirit travelling, for his stamina was being tested, and he could feel his body demanding his return. Pain began to course through him, as he held determinedly to the spirit paths to watch this battle. He had to know, just had to know how it finished.

  Some of the Rangers baited Kalas, then stepped back, while others tried to strike from behind, and yet he somehow always sensed the attacks and was able to face his foes in time. Yet this stalemate couldn’t go on forever.

  Daleth watched one of his Rangers move back from the group, finding space to draw his bow, and Daleth smiled. He knew all his men and this one’s skill with the bow was extraordinary. His weapon was a gift from Daleth himself, made from the horn of a forest stag. It could put an arrow through a horse. Silian, the archer, drew back on the string, watching Kalas’ movements, and Daleth knew the moment he would loose, for he watched Silian exhale before smoothly releasing the arrow.

  Daleth’s eyes flashed to Kalas, expecting to see him thrown from his feet, the fight soon to end, but instead, he swayed, and Daleth saw one of his Rangers go down, directly opposite Silian, the arrow in his chest!

  Again Silian loosed, and this time Kalas’ blade deflected the arrow which swept another Ranger from his feet, screaming in pain.

  Kalas didn’t wait for a third arrow, and instead, charged toward the archer. The other Rangers moved in front of Kalas, trying to keep him from their biggest hope. Yet, Kalas bizarrely tossed one of his blades into the air, and as every eye followed it for a split second, his free hand flashed over his shoulder then down again, and Silian collapsed with a throwing dagger in his throat.

  Fifteen down to seven in moments … everything Alano had said was proving to be true.

  He watched as his Rangers fell one by one to the dance of Kalas’ swords and tricks as if choreographed for months. Several of them even managed to lay a blade on him, drawing blood, yet it didn’t seem to give him pause for a moment.

  Daleth screamed in pain and frustration, ready to return to his body and the headache of a lifetime. Yet unexpectedly, Kalas’ red eyes turned toward him, impossibly fixing him with a baleful gaze.

  ‘I can see you Witch-King, I hope you enjoyed the show, Kalas can see you, and Kalas is coming!’

  Daleth’s scream now had nothing to do with pain or frustration, as those red eyes and vile laughter stayed with him all the way as he fled back to his body.

  -----

  The Royal Palace in Freemantle stood higher than all the surrounding buildings. To reach the main doors, a person had to climb fifty steps. Every fifth step was adorned with a statue of rulers past, portraying them bedecked in jewels. It inspired those who worked or lived within its walls, for this was the centre of trade, with wealth beyond measure.

  T
ristan wondered what the nobles and people would think if they knew that the Freestates treasury was now almost empty. The cessation of trade with the realm of the Witch-King had seen revenue plummet. Now with the vast amount of money spent to repair the citadel and hire thousands of men, funds were running low.

  Now, Tristan stood at the top of the steps with no more than a dozen grizzled guards standing nervously behind him, men who’d been in service for decades and were too old to be worth turning against their king. As he waited stoically, looking out into the darkness of the night, he wondered how it had come to this, whether this was really going to happen. Anthain, big, loyal, bumbling Anthain. His bodyguard, general and confidant for so many years, on his way to usurp him, to kill him. Surely not.

  Earlier that evening, Astren had told him of Anthain’s treachery, and initially, he’d reacted in disbelief, scolding Astren over his petty rivalry. Yet Astren had been so scared, so sure, that it soon convinced Tristan that even if it wasn’t true, Astren believed it was. He’d called for the guard, but when no one replied, Astren opened the doors to the throne room to find none at their post, and icy fingers had crawled up his back.

  They’d walked cautiously but quickly then, through the many halls and chambers, coming across isolated guards who were just as confused as to their comrades’ whereabouts. Every one of them was ordered to join Tristan’s growing entourage, that also contained any clerk who’d been working into the night.

  It appeared that almost every guard in the capital had turned against him.

  Now, as he peered into the gloom of the city, he was surprised to still be alive. However, Anthain needed the support of the nobles to legitimise his usurping the throne, and was therefore making this a public spectacle. Tristan saw a procession of hundreds of torches approaching from the west, snaking its way slowly through the nobles and senior merchants quarter, and he nodded in grudging appreciation.

  Anthain maybe wasn’t quite the bumbling giant Tristan had felt he was, or perhaps there was someone behind him helping him with his plans, for surely this was a canny move. By waking these key citizens at a time when they would have no chance to protest, they had almost no choice but to join Anthain or instead be slaughtered half-asleep along with their kin.

  It would be a while before Anthain arrived and every moment counted as Tristan waited patiently. The guards at his back shifted nervously, and he turned to them and smiled broadly with a confidence he certainly didn’t feel.

  Tristan opened his arms wide. ‘Fear not, my loyal guards,’ he lied. ‘I have known for months of Anthain’s treachery, but I also wanted to ensnare even the smallest snake that had turned against me. By standing at my side, you have reaffirmed your steadfast loyalty, and such an act will be duly rewarded.’

  The men looked at each other, reassured, then back at their king in surprise as he laughed.

  Tristan leaned casually against a tall column and wished he felt as confident as his lie had made him sound, because his insides felt like water.

  Now where in the nine hells was Astren and what was taking him so long?

  Death was coming with the dawn.

  -----

  Chapter XV

  Rakan, Taran and Maya surged through the woods, the sound of battle diminishing behind them as they ran.

  ‘We should have stayed to help,’ shouted Maya as she led them along a game trail, leaping over fallen trees and ducking under low branches.

  Rakan and Taran came behind, far less graceful, but with dogged determination.

  ‘We would have made no difference,’ Rakan shouted back in response. ‘One extra man against that many Rangers would still see us all dead on the ground.’

  Maya didn’t need much convincing. Fortunately, the brush with death had given them all a new surge of energy, but it couldn’t last forever, so as time went by and with no further sign of the Rangers, she progressively slowed the pace so they could keep running. The moon that had shown them the way began to fade as the beginnings of a new dawn brightened the sky.

  A thunderous noise slowly grew louder and could be heard over their footfalls and gasps for breath.

  ‘It’s the white river!’ called Rakan, answering the unspoken question. ‘We might only have delayed the inevitable, but at least we might be able to choose the manner of our death if they catch us.’

  They weaved through the trees and undergrowth at an ever-decreasing speed, until they finally reached the edge of the forest, where they came to a ragged, breathless halt.

  ‘It must be the Forelorn mountains,’ said Maya, pointing to the horizon, where the enormous peaks of the easternmost border rose into the sky, the tops obscured by cloud. ‘They seem so close.’

  ‘And there’s the White River!’ Rakan added.

  A frothing torrent of water split the land in two, and the landscape before them as they paused briefly to gaze at it. In the far distance a decaying forest led to the base of the mountains, but between them lay a wide expanse of rocky ground on this side of the river and a broad grassy plain on the other. Yet luck was with them, for there was a barely visible track bisecting the countryside, leading to an old rope and wood bridge. It hung suspended over the raging waters, offering passage to the plain beyond.

  ‘If we can get to that forest,’ said Rakan, raising his voice above the roar of the water, ‘it will lead us to the lands where Laska holds sway. Now let’s get to that bridge!’

  Without further discussion, Maya led the way toward the track, but it wasn’t easy going. The soft forest floor now gave way to uneven land, and large rocks thrust upward as if the very ground were trying to eject them as if diseased. They leapt from boulder to boulder and then ran whenever there was open ground.

  Suddenly, Maya slipped and thrust her bow into the ground to stop herself falling, but it splintered under the sudden stress, and she fell hard, her foot twisting in a hole, and when she got up and tried to run again, it gave way immediately.

  ‘Quickly heal yourself,’ urged Taran, as his eyes scanned the edge of the forest.

  But Maya shook her head. ‘I can’t. My gift doesn’t work on me.’

  Taran’s eyes opened wide. ‘That might have been good to know before now,’ he said with surprise, then swept her up in his arms. He grunted with the effort and followed Rakan at a reduced pace.

  Maya held Taran tightly around his neck, sobbing more in frustration than pain, as he struggled to run with her in his arms. Yet he barely moved faster than a walk in his exhausted state on the uneven ground.

  They finally reached the track and Taran all but collapsed at its verge.

  ‘Here, let me help!’ offered Rakan, taking Maya from an unprotesting Taran, and then set off toward the bridge.

  ‘I’ll be right behind you,’ replied Taran.

  Rakan nodded as he trotted off.

  Taran bent over gasping for a short while, his vision blurred, when movement caught his eye. Over where the track reached the brow of the hill to the northwest, crested five armed men. Five men meant they were likely Rangers, and they started sprinting down the hill the moment they spotted him.

  Taran broke into a slow run after Rakan, screaming in warning, but the noise of the water drowned his words as he saw them start to cross the rope bridge. Rakan now half-carried Maya, and the two of them held the suspension rope above their head for balance as they walked across the wooden slats that swayed dangerously beneath them.

  Taran reached the beginning of the bridge when they were halfway across and turned to find the Rangers almost upon him. He drew his sword, then held the suspension rope with his left hand as he carefully stepped back, his feet finding purchase as he moved cautiously above the raging water.

  The Rangers slowed as they approached, and then one by one jumped up to follow. They were so sure with their movement and didn’t even need to hold the suspension rope as a guide.

  Taran backed away knowing there was no escape, not for him, and certainly not for the other two if the Rangers g
ot past him.

  The lead Ranger, a bearded man with those strange black eyes, stopped a few slats short of Taran and smiled, arms folded, perfectly balanced even as the bridge bounced under the weight of so many people.

  ‘You’ve led us on a fine chase!’ he shouted. ‘I have no doubts you are good with that blade, but it won’t be enough, I’m sure you know. Best you say your goodbyes,’ and he nodded over Taran’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll kill you all!’ snarled Taran, as he backed further away, sword raised, biding for time.

  The Ranger laughed and shook his head. ‘You can’t beat us, lad. Not me and certainly not the five of us.’

  Taran refused to take his eyes off of the man fearing a ruse, but the man just nodded again. ‘Go on, say your goodbyes.’

  Taran glanced over his shoulder to see that Rakan and Maya had just reached the other side. As they turned, he met their eyes briefly, then raised his blade in a final salute before turning back to the grinning Rangers in front of him.

  ‘I never said I could beat you,’ said Taran grimly. ‘I just said I’d kill you all.’

  With that, he firmed his grip on the overhead suspension rope and swept his sword down, severing the rope on his right that supported the wooden slats. The bridge suddenly twisted, throwing three of the Rangers into the torrent below. Their screams were swept away with them.

  However, the two lead Rangers had read Taran’s intent at the last moment and had grabbed for the rope overhead. Now the three of them hung precariously above the water, all the support beneath their feet gone.

  Taran hung by one arm, the other grasping his sword. The two Rangers, however, hung by both having yet to draw their blades.

  ‘I don’t see you laughing now,’ Taran shouted, as the Rangers frantically swung arm over arm toward him, and he put the razor-sharp edge of the sword to the suspension rope and started to cut.

  It was old and under so much stress from the weight of the three men that the strands parted almost instantly, and Taran for a moment felt satisfaction, as he saw the reality hit the Rangers’ faces. This was the end.