Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  As the rope gave way, Taran and the remaining two Rangers fell into the freezing water. Taran let go of his sword and held on to the rope with every last bit of strength as the icy flow dragged him under. His end of the rope, which remained secured at the far side of the bank, swung him across the current as he was swept downstream.

  Taran hit a rock, and the air was punched from his lungs just as he went under and swallowed a huge amount of freezing water. Blackness replaced his thoughts just as he ploughed into another rock, and he felt his ribs break. It was too much, and Taran finally let go of the rope in agony as he was spun around in the torrent, smashing against one rock after another.

  He mercifully lost consciousness a moment later.

  -----

  Anthain was flanked by his closest friends as he marched. Around him, the city guard, whose loyalty had been bought with the help of his benefactor, cheered him on. Every fourth man held a torch as they worked their way from villa to villa through the nobles’ and wealthy merchants’ quarter, waking those who remained asleep, demanding support for Anthain, who would save them from the tyranny of Tristan’s rule.

  Some initially sought to argue, but their screams as they died ensured that those following soon fell into line behind Anthain and his quest for power. So, as he approached the Royal Palace, in addition to his near eight hundred guards resplendent in their ornate armour, there were also now at least five hundred nobles and merchants following behind, chanting his name.

  He sat astride a huge black horse, an imposing figure, and waved benignly at those people who opened their doors as he rode past in the morning light, calling them to his just cause. He wondered how enthusiastic his guard and followers would be if they knew the nation would soon be allied to the Witch-King himself. Yet most likely as long as they made a profit, they wouldn’t care if they served the devils of the nine hells themselves.

  As they approached the Royal Palace, he could see figures near the entrance, and his stomach felt a little uneasy to see Tristan standing on the top of the steps with some guards behind him.

  True, the man could have treated him better, but to die at the point of Anthain’s sword made him want to vomit. Despite having practised with sword and shield for many years, he’d never killed a man, and now he was going to kill his king.

  Some of his men laughed as they saw Tristan standing in robes, not even armed, and joked of the wealth they would share, and the positions they would take under Anthain’s new rule. He felt a little better as his men formed up behind him, marching forward along the broad avenue that opened up into the grounds surrounding the palace.

  The rhythm of the men’s boots drummed loudly on the cobblestones as they approached the palace steps, and when Anthain raised his hand to signal the halt, the crash of stamping feet echoed around like thunder. Into the silence that followed, he spoke.

  Anthain had been blessed with a loud voice to match his large frame. ‘Tristan the generous,’ he shouted, using the biggest insult in Freestates language. ‘You would bring poverty upon us all and ruin at the hands of the Witch-King with your extravagant ways. I Anthain, have the support of the Freestates nobility, and they demand your head.’

  His men roared, and Anthain felt relieved his voice hadn’t cracked as he urged his horse forward a few steps. The nobles and merchants gathered closely behind the guards, to watch the bloody spectacle of Tristan’s execution unfold.

  Credit to the man, thought Anthain, for Tristan didn’t move or run, and yet perhaps that would soon happen. Tristan leant against one of the giant pillars, and suddenly a shadow of a doubt made Anthain’s stomach clench. Why did Tristan look so damned pleased with himself, with that charlatan Astren at his side?

  The sound of marching feet answered his unspoken question as from the left and right of the palace marched several hundred armed men. Garbed in long robes that hid their armour, armed with body length shields and long spears, Anthain recognised them as desert spearmen. They came to a crashing unified halt, either side of his column of men, spear butts cracking against the cobblestones, throwing up sparks, as they roared Tristan’s name.

  Very good, old man, but not good enough, Anthain thought. He looked at his own guard to see uncertainty ripple through their ranks as they hadn’t expected a fight. ‘They’re no more than five hundred to our eight,’ called Anthain, and saw his words steady their resolve.

  He turned to his sergeant. ‘Get ready to give the order. Have two hundred men guard our back as we turn and overwhelm the spearmen on the right first. We’ll then finish the others if they have the stomach to fight before we deal with Tristan.’

  Anthain felt pleased with his strategy, maybe those years in the military academy hadn’t been wasted after all.

  Quiet settled over the courtyard, broken only by the crackle of torches and whispering amongst the men, as everyone waited for the reply Tristan would give, that would signal the beginning of what was to come.

  Tristan’s voice rang out. ‘To become wealthy is a laudable pursuit, Anthain.’ he shouted.

  Anthain swelled at the unexpected praise, yet Tristan continued.

  ‘But it is my belief that you take the gold of the Witch-King himself to achieve such, only to then squander it on buying the loyalty of those who know not the meaning of the word. You will sell this kingdom and have nothing left but dust in your hands, and this is a crime no true Freestates man can ever forgive.’

  The insult fell heavily on Anthain, and his face grew red with rage. He needed to decide whether to refute the accusation or to retake the initiative and give the order to attack. Yes, attack, Anthain decided. However, just as he was about to give the command, Tristan raised his hand as if he was about to say something else and everyone hushed for his final words.

  There was a moments pause, but then Tristan’s hand chopped down to point at Anthain. ‘Die!’ Tristan shouted.

  From the roof of the Royal Palace, a rain of arrows fell, as five hundred archers of the Eyre, rose to their feet, and loosed with deadly accuracy into the packed ranks of Anthain’s men below. As scores of Anthain’s men fell screaming, the rest raised shields and brought them together in unison to defend against the death that rained from the sky.

  Anthain swiftly joined them as his horse fell pierced a dozen times. ‘Advance to the front!’ he roared.

  His guard responded and started to move forward, protected from the archers above as they closed the distance on the palace. Yet as they did so, the spearmen moved in from both sides.

  ‘Shields, high and sides!’ cried Anthain, knowing he still had a slight advantage. If they could push to the steps, the spearmen would lose their formation, and the archers wouldn’t be able to fire directly down into their ranks.

  Yet even as Anthain’s men carried out his orders, the nobles and merchants who were being cut down by the arrows, began to seek shelter amongst his men. As they pushed into the guard’s formation in desperation, gaps began to appear between the shields, and without an unbroken barrier, more and more arrows found their mark, and panic started to creep in.

  The fighting square they had formed began to fragment, as the spearmen closed the distance and their spears started to bite home. Cries of pain rose as swords and spear drew blood on both sides as the guard fought skillfully, albeit with growing desperation as the civilians in their midst hindered their efforts at maintaining cohesion.

  Despite this, Anthain, alongside his closest friends, carved their way through several spearmen and reached the steps of the palace. Anthain’s sword arm was so tired, heavy like stone, yet he felt elated. He’d killed and still stood. Soon his steel would find Tristan’s flesh.

  ‘Charge. Kill the king and this is over!’ screamed Anthain, as his sergeant, and over fifty of his remaining men accompanied him as they started sprinting up the steps. The screams of the injured behind spurred them on.

  Anthain flew up the first ten as if he had wings on his shoulders, the next ten almost as fast. By the time he
reached thirty, his legs had started to shake, and then as he got to forty, he barely had the energy to walk.

  More archers stepped from behind the pillars ahead, and Anthain raised his shield in time to block several arrows. Surely he was blessed this day. He cut two archers from their feet and revelled in his strength.

  As Anthain neared the top, he quickly looked around and realised to his horror that he was now alone. His friends lay dead or dying on the steps behind him, and his gasping breaths turned to desperate sobs as he forced himself up the last few steps to where Tristan waited. He barely had the strength to lift his blade, yet he did so, and none of Tristan’s guards moved, perhaps in awe of his prowess. He roared his battle cry and moved toward Tristan and that damned Astren.

  An excruciating cramp in his left leg caused it to buckle. He fell heavily and noticed the arrow embedded deep in his thigh. He struggled to rise and had just pushed himself upright when an arrow took him in the other leg. With a crash, Anthain fell to his knees and dropped his sword.

  ‘Oh gods, help me!’ he cried, and looked around in desperation for any of his soldiers. Tears ran down his face as he turned to see Tristan walking forward with Astren at his side.

  Tristan knelt, lifted Anthain’s fallen sword, and grunted with the effort, for he was not a strong man. ‘You know,’ said Tristan, as he looked down at Anthain. ‘Your father paid me a fortune to take you on as my bodyguard, and it was he who paid for this sword to be made. I bestowed this to you as you took office. You swore on your life that this blade would keep me safe from all harm. Do you remember that day, Anthain?’

  Anthain looked up, his eyes blurred from the pain and tears, and nodded. ‘Forgive me my king, I had no choice,’ he whimpered.

  Tristan stood tall. He raised the sword high above his head and brought it crashing down. Yet he was not skilled with the blade, and it deflected from Anthain’s skull to slice deep into the shoulder. Anthain screamed in agony as Tristan used his sandaled foot to help yank the blade free.

  Again and again, Tristan chopped at Anthain, releasing his pent up fear and anger. After he had brought the blade down a final time, he turned his blood-spattered face to Astren. ‘He swore this blade would keep me safe, and he managed to keep that oath in some way after all.’

  He raised his eyes to the slaughter that had taken place in the courtyard. All of the traitorous guards were dead, as were nigh on two hundred of the city’s wealthiest nobles and merchants.

  ‘You know,’ said Tristan, turning to Astren. ‘Anthain has in a way done us a huge favour today. We can now confiscate the combined wealth of all those dead nobles and merchants as traitors to the throne. The crown is solvent again.

  ‘But, before we do, make sure you pay the spearmen and archers a hefty bonus and ensure they get thoroughly drunk before they realise this city could be theirs for the taking!’

  -----

  Rakan had struggled with Maya over the swaying bridge, feeling decidedly unsteady as he saw the water rush by between the slats at his feet. Half carrying the girl with one arm made this challenging feat all the more difficult.

  ‘I’m sorry, lass,’ he’d said, when Maya demanded he let her go just before the crossing. ‘Even if this hurts your pride, the faster we get to the other side the better, and it will be too dangerous and slow for you to hop on your own, especially as these wooden slats are swaying and damp with spray.’

  He’d moved as fast as possible, knowing Taran was right behind him guarding his back, and again felt warm with the knowledge that he could now trust someone with his life, to protect him when he was vulnerable, something he’d never thought to feel.

  So when he finally stepped off of the last swaying slat, his exhausted arms could support Maya no longer, and he lowered her to the ground for Taran to take over.

  ‘Here, lad,’ he said, turning, and then Maya cried out as they saw Taran look toward them with five Rangers at his back.

  ‘Rakan, do something!’ shouted Maya.

  Rakan started to move, not knowing how he could even get to Taran in time, when he saw Taran adjust his grip on the suspension rope.

  He’d planned to destroy the bridge once they were all across, so knew immediately what Taran intended. Instead of running on to the bridge, he turned along the river’s edge and shouted for Maya to follow him as fast as she was able.

  Out the corner of his eye, Rakan saw Taran’s sword sever one of the support ropes, and then moments later the main suspension one, throwing himself and the remaining Rangers into the frothing white waters below.

  Rakan leapt from the river bank onto the closest rocks that showed above the frothing water, and made his way out into the river, watching as Taran swung like a pendulum across its width.

  Hold on, lad, thought Rakan, as he saw Taran strike a rock then go under the water. Several heartbeats later Taran rose briefly to the surface only to crash into another rock.

  He recognised in an instant that Taran was unconscious, and would pass by out of reach from where he stood. So Rakan drew his sword, and dived into the torrent, thrusting it deep into the river bed. As Rakan held on to the hilt, he kept his body low, looking out for Taran despite being barely able to see. Fortunately, the current brought Taran’s spinning body straight into him.

  Rakan grabbed hold of Taran’s shirt, then used all his strength to swing him toward the bank. Just as his breath and grip on the sword hilt were about to give up, Maya’s hands came from above and hauled Taran’s body behind a rock. Rakan burst to the surface gasping for air, then together they wrestled Taran’s body out of the river onto the rock where Maya crouched, and Rakan climbed after.

  Despite his exhaustion, Rakan turned Taran on to his back, and Maya gasped.

  Taran’s head was smashed on one side, his cheek torn, with bone protruding from his face. His shirt was ripped, while shards of his ribs glistened whitely in the fading light.

  ‘Right girl, time to work your magic,’ urged Rakan.

  Maya leaned forward, placed her hands on Taran’s temples, and reached for her gift.

  Rakan’s eyes widened as he watched a glow surround Taran’s broken body, then the terrible wounds began to close.

  In moments Taran was healed, yet he still wasn’t breathing.

  ‘Oh no, please, no!’ moaned Maya. ‘Don’t leave me, not now, not ever!’ She continued to pour all the power of her gift that she could summon into Taran, as she’d done with her father.

  Swathes of flowers sprung up all along the riverbank, while the rock they were on became lush with moss, full of life in direct contrast to Taran’s inert body.

  Rakan was at a loss, but knew Taran would have swallowed lots of water, so he lifted Taran to a kneeling position, got behind him, and pulled his clasped hands, again, and again, into Taran’s stomach. ‘Come on now,’ he urged. ‘Now’s not the time for you to die. Breathe!’

  Water flooded from Taran’s lungs in response to Rakan’s efforts, and all of a sudden Taran sucked in a huge gasp of air, and colour started returning to his cheeks, as his breathing slowly returned to normal.

  Rakan lay Taran down and sat back, the moisture in his eyes now matched Maya’s.

  Maya cradled Taran’s head on her lap as she stroked his wet hair. Exhausted now, she closed her eyes and slumped forward as unconscious as Taran.

  Rakan felt pain everywhere, but forced himself to his feet, moved to Maya and eased her gently back onto the rock. Next, he lifted Taran in his arms, carrying him to the riverbank and the now lush grass that grew there, before doing the same for Maya, laying her next to Taran. He stripped off his shirt and Taran’s, then threw them on the grass to dry in the weak sun.

  Rakan sat down, exhausted. He wanted to fall asleep, but knew he had to keep watch while the other two recovered.

  They were now in a dire situation.

  Other than a couple of daggers, they had no proper weapons. Their packs and provisions were left behind, and without Maya’s bow, there was no quick way for t
hem to hunt for food.

  To the east, the Forelorn mountains rose up in the distance, several days hard travel away, but at least more forest lay between them and their destination which would help cover their progress a little.

  Their fate shortly thereafter would lay in the hands of Laska. Rakan couldn’t see how to bluff their way through as if they were on the king’s business, especially now that they looked entirely like the fugitives they were.

  Also, without any resources, they had nothing with which to barter, bribe or pay. Perhaps joining up with Laska would be a good idea, assuming he would take them in.

  Rakan looked back over the river and saw movement in the shadows of the far tree line, so hunkered down in the tall grass, eyes narrowing.

  There, moving amongst the foliage in silver armour, was the warrior who had saved them earlier by attacking the Rangers, and somehow he was still alive. Maybe it was a different man? It would be impossible for one man to kill fifteen, yet it was too much of a coincidence.

  Rakan was tempted to chance his luck and call for help. Surely if this warrior were an enemy of the Witch-King’s men, he might prove an ally. Yet there was something about the way he moved, or that strange glow from inside his helm, that stayed Rakan’s hand from rising. Instead, Rakan lowered himself down even further.

  The warrior knelt studying their trail, then rose and walked over to the now-destroyed bridge to look over the river. The silvered helm tilted, as if the man inside listened for something, and then turned toward where Rakan was hiding. For some reason, Rakan held his breath as if it were possible to be heard above the roar of the river.

  Rakan was glad the water’s fury lay between them. How far north or south to the next crossing, he didn’t know.

  Slowly the warrior turned north, and despite wearing armour, ran along the bank, and jumped from rock to rock, surefooted as a mountain goat.

  As he disappeared beyond the crest of the hill to the north, Rakan slowly relaxed. His head pounded as he lay upon the grass, looking up at the clouds.