Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  Please don’t rain, he thought, and then without intending to, fell into an exhausted sleep.

  -----

  Chapter XVI

  ‘Damn that man,’ swore Daleth.

  He’d awoken to the worst headache imaginable, soaked in sweat. Spirit travel was taxing at best, but to watch the slaughter of his Rangers, and for Kalas to then threaten him, had not only put him in the worse mood imaginable, but left him exhausted as well.

  Daleth usually rode at the head of his troops, but today he attempted to rest as he lay in the back of a wagon. The inept driver seemed determined to hit every rock imaginable on the way to Tristan’s Folly, and the only thing that cheered Daleth up was the thought of the man’s head on a spear at the end of this tortuous journey.

  The wagon ground to a halt, and Daleth moaned as he pulled himself from the back. It was customary for the troops to pause for a midday rest. A soldier travelled further with short, frequent stops as opposed to a forced march all day over a long period, and Daleth wanted his men fresh for the assault on the citadel.

  Daleth looked around in the dull light, feeling satisfied.

  There, far ahead in the distance, he could see the wagons that carried the dismantled siege engines. Some of the larger ones were already assembled and pulled by teams of oxen. The hell they would rain down on the defenders would be demoralising, leaving them easy prey for his troops as they stormed any breach.

  The citadel on the Freestates side was enormous. The amount of money that was spent on its construction all those years ago was by rumour, beyond count. They’d rightly feared for their lives back then as they should now.

  He’d bought the plans of the citadel for a man’s weight in gold almost forty years ago, and had spent so much time looking at it, that by the time the large parchment had fallen into pieces, he was able to call it to memory with every detail clear in his mind.

  The citadel had a curtain wall eighty hands thick, and a hundred and forty hands high, that stretched the full width of the pass with un-scalable sheer mountains on either side. Each wall had four rounded towers that protruded slightly, giving additional range to the defending archers, while also providing cover for the walls should an enemy ever reach the base.

  Behind the curtain wall, were three more, successively higher than the one in front, that allowed archers to fire over the heads of their defending brethren, or to sweep the preceding walls clear, should the enemy manage to gain a foothold.

  Between each wall was a space of a hundred and twenty paces. This gave a clear killing ground, but had a deep fire trench halfway across, with wooden bridges that would be doused in oil and burned by any withdrawing defenders.

  At the base of the second, third, and fourth wall, were stone platforms for defending siege engines. These weapons of destruction could fire huge rocks into the pass, or pitchers of oil that could be set aflame with fire arrows.

  The gates which had been open to trade up until six months ago were set deep into the wall. Hot ashes or sand could be dropped down upon any invader through murder holes in the tunnel roof, should the gates come under attack.

  Lastly, behind the walls, was the massive keep abutting the north wall of the pass. It didn’t span the pass itself, and from its heights, defenders could fire arrows down on any enemy that had already breached the walls, and attempted to use the pass without taking it first.

  When it was first built, it was a defensive commander’s dream. Yet such a colossus needed to be maintained, repaired and manned. Only a year ago, a returning agent who’d infiltrated the citadel garrison, had given a damning report on the state of the citadel itself, that had filled Daleth’s heart with confidence.

  The walls were crumbling, siege engines had rotted, and even the sturdy gates of iron reinforced wood had warped. The list of failures was long, and whereas it could be manned by upwards of seven thousand men, it had a contingent of barely one thousand men at the time, none of them archers.

  Irrespective, Daleth was taking absolutely no chances, for the defender's numbers would likely have swelled in preparation for his assault. His engineers had built siege engines that could throw such heavy rocks, that he doubted the walls could withstand the bombardment for more than a few days.

  Normally, transporting any meaningful amount of heavy ammunition for the engines would have been a problem. However, he’d ordered for his citadel to be all but dismantled, and thus the rocks from this demolition were ready and waiting.

  He had just over one hundred thousand fighting men for his conquest. Of those, two thousand were specialised assault infantry with armour so heavy that it could deflect most arrows. These soldiers also carried large shields for extra protection, and would lead the attack, taking the brunt of any initial defence.

  The rest were various units of engineers, medium or light infantry and spearmen. Then there was the light cavalry - the lancers, ready to overtake any fleeing soldiers and wreak havoc in the countryside beyond.

  This vast army would completely enslave the Freestates, then conquer the Eyre to the north and the Horseclans to the south, ensuring those peoples were subdued, their lands part of his growing empire. Once these gains were consolidated, he would march his army further eastward then turn south to fight the desert tribes in the lands beyond.

  The amount of strength he now received from the lands he left behind had diminished to almost nothing. As its people succumbed, their misery fed him for a while, but once they were dead, he would receive no life or strength from them either.

  This invasion would change all of that. When his men carved their way across new lands, the pain and suffering they caused would feed him directly, and then the land itself would nourish him for decades to come.

  Daleth couldn’t wait.

  He cursed as an image of red eyes suddenly distracted him from thoughts of glory. It had been a mistake to consider capturing Kalas. The idea of having another daemon warrior under his control was alluring, but not worth the risk.

  He knew he was completely safe amongst this vast host of men, and yet until that man, no, that daemon was killed, he would keep feeling on edge, especially as Kalas had foiled the Rangers’ attack on the girl and her companions.

  Thanks to these four renegades, he’d lost twenty of the finest fighting men in his kingdom, maybe even the world. A tenth of the Rangers’ total ranks and those were the ones he was aware of.

  He calmed himself as he forced emotion to one side. Everything would soon be in hand and would only end one way, with him victorious. He just had to be patient regarding the daemon, because Kalas would come for him. So sooner or later, either the lancers would hunt Kalas down, or Kalas would show himself as they journeyed to Tristan’s Folly. Either way, the daemon warrior would be dealt with.

  The three fugitives, well, he’d correctly anticipated their destination. It was his meticulous attention to even the tiniest detail that gave him a small measure of personal satisfaction to balance the frustration he also felt. When he’d discovered that one of the fugitives had been in the Nightstalkers, who were sometimes assigned to escort agents, he’d made preparations just in case. Of course, he hadn’t expected them to get that far, but his planning for such an eventuality was going to be rewarded.

  There was another contingent of the Rangers already on their way to Laska’s settlement.

  Many of his Rangers had gifts, mostly around speed, strength, or truth-seeking, but there was one leading this contingent that had a skill that would ensure the three fugitives had a very nasty and deadly surprise. He’d almost had the Ranger killed as a young boy when his gift was identified, for it had even been a threat to him. Now he was glad he’d stayed the executioner's hand, for when the fugitives encountered the Ranger and his men, there was no doubt in his mind that this time the outcome would be very different indeed.

  He would spirit talk with the Ranger, Brandon, this very night for an update. He was a man full of such contrast, handsome beyond compare, yet with the darke
st soul, one to almost match his own. Maybe even the daemon Alano would have felt a kinship.

  If only he had the strength to spirit travel again. He could watch the final confrontation and its bloody end, and then afterwards, track down Kalas so he could be found and killed. However, several days of rest would be required before he would be able to do so.

  Kalas is coming. The words came unbidden to his mind. Damn that man, he thought, then laughed to the surprise of those around him.

  Surely if anyone was damned, it was one who shared his soul with a daemon!

  -----

  Alano wept inside his mind. He cried out and pushed against the daemon’s will, trying to regain control as he’d done ever since the daemon had brushed him aside when he was at his weakest with death approaching.

  There had been many times in the last fifty years when Alano had allowed himself to succumb to the daemon’s will for a short while, letting it feast so he could gain some respite from its constant demands for blood, for life, that would push him close to the verge of madness.

  He’d felt cursed then, but he was at least in control the majority of the time, but now, now he was the prisoner in his body at the whim of the daemon. He looked at the world through a haze of red, saw the blood pump through the veins of all those around, knew constant hunger, and the desire to spill blood just for the primitive joy of ending another’s life.

  Even worse, the daemon satiated that hunger almost every night, on one unfortunate peasant girl after another, and revelled in their fear and piteous cries for mercy. Whereas in the past, Alano had been able to distance himself from the daemon’s feeding, as he allowed it brief control, or was even unaware as he slept, now the daemon controlled his mind and forced him to share in every moment.

  No man alive could see the nine hells, yet Alano did, and it had driven his mind to the brink of insanity.

  Alano was trapped in a living hell.

  To start, he’d resisted the constant killing, tried to regain control of his body, his destiny, and for a while it seemed possible he might even prevail such was his strength. He would be able to stay the daemons killing bite, or thrust, or whatever manner of way he was going to deal death. Shortly thereafter, he could only manage it for a heartbeat, and each time the daemon’s dark laughter mocked him, encouraged him to fight on, and took joy from his defeat.

  Now, after many days, the daemon had won, his will was not to be denied, and Alano moaned with such sorrow, that the daemon responded by laughing in pure joy.

  -----

  Taran slowly became aware that he could hear a roaring, a noise that seemed quite fitting as he plummeted down to whatever the afterlife had in store for him, likely something hot and very unpleasant.

  Yet as his senses started to return, he became aware of something gently tickling his nose. This certainly didn’t seem like something from the nine hells, so he tentatively opened his eyes and expected to see fire, smoke and daemons. Instead, he looked up to see Maya, as she gazed down on him. Her hair moved softly in the breeze, brushing across his face.

  ‘Welcome back,’ she sniffed, then brought her lips down to kiss his, and Taran felt lifted to the sky above in an instant.

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to cheat death to wake up to a kiss,’ he said sleepily.

  ‘I thought you’d left me!’ Maya cried, and suddenly her body was wracked with sobs.

  Taran pulled himself to a sitting position and cradled Maya in his arms while his heart beat with concern and happiness all at once. He just wanted to close his eyes and feel her close, but their situation made him look around as he held her shaking body, his strong arms wrapped around her.

  The sun was halfway across the sky, and Rakan was fast asleep a few steps away. The roar Taran had heard was the river they’d crossed, and in a rush, everything flooded back to his mind. The flight, then the bridge, and him plunging to what he thought was an icy death.

  Taran took note of his shirt on the ground beside him. ‘Hey,’ he said, trying to calm Maya, ‘did you try and take advantage of me when I was asleep?’

  Maya looked up, her eyes puffy, but a hint of mischief showed behind the tears.

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I think it was Rakan who undressed you, so you’d better ask him that question,’ and she laughed softly as did Taran.

  ‘Oh look,’ she continued. ‘He has no shirt on either. I think you boys have a lot of explaining to do.’ This time her face lit up with wicked humour, and Taran couldn’t help but give her a playful shove. Their tousle ended up with Maya in his arms again, and they lay on their backs and looked up at the brightening sky.

  ‘You know I could happily stare at the clouds all day if you stared at them with me,’ murmured Taran. ‘But I fear we’re not out of danger yet, and if we’ve been asleep here all night, I think we need to get moving as soon as possible.’

  He brushed Maya’s hair to one side, noticing some snow-white hair amongst the dark black, and softly kissed her forehead, before reluctantly letting go. He stood and moved across to Rakan. ‘Wake up before your snoring attracts a wild boar,’ he said, shaking him by the shoulder.

  Rakan sat bolt upright, looking embarrassed. ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, you two look so pretty together,’ chuckled Maya, tears running down her face again, but this time with laughter. ‘Bare-chested and so strong.’

  Rakan looked at Taran questioningly as they pulled their shirts on. ‘She’s a strange one,’ Rakan muttered, ‘I think you can do better, lad.’

  This time Maya’s laughter knew no limits. ‘You’re so right, Rakan, I can’t compete with you at all. You two should live happily ever after,’ and she rolled on her back, holding her sides.

  ‘I thought it was Taran who hit his head against the rocks!’ laughed Rakan, his own humour starting to rise, but then his face turned serious.

  ‘Right, we need to quieten down. We have no idea how close any pursuers may be,’ and with that, he rose to his knees and spent a while scanning all around them. ‘Earlier, that warrior in silver armour who attacked the Rangers followed us to the crossing, and I think he’s tracking us. There’s little doubt he’s no friend of the Witch-King, but neither does that make him our ally. We are now probably around four day’s journey to where Laska and his men hold sway. Whereas before I thought that we could bluff him into showing us the way across the mountains, considering the state of us I think we’ll have to throw ourselves on his mercy and seek sanctuary amongst him and his folk.’

  ‘You mentioned he survived on the whim of the Witch-King,’ said Maya. ‘What makes you think he’ll risk himself and his people’s existence on harbouring us? Maybe it’s better we somehow try to make it on our own?’

  ‘Maya,’ said Rakan, ’think this through. The reason we’re so easily found is the power of your gift which you no longer have full control over.’ As he said this, his hands swept around him. ‘Look at what you’ve done here while saving Taran.’ He then pointed across the river to the new growth that led back to the woodland on the other side to emphasise his point. ‘Over there is what still happens when you don’t consciously use it. Your every breath points the way to those who hunt us, and there is no hiding where you are. We no longer have weapons beyond daggers, and while I know your gift can provide us with berries, fruits, and fresh water, we’ll die out here before long, either to wild animals, Rangers, or simply starving folk who will be desperate to stave off dying themselves a few days longer.’

  ‘Initially, I thought our best avenue of escape was to cross the mountains whatever the danger, and perhaps Laska will allow us to try if he feels it’s in his interest, although without gold or anything else to give him, I doubt it. Instead, I can only hope Laska will offer us shelter. He might see the advantage of having a healer who can help his people and bring prosperity to his land, for without doubt it needs it.’

  Taran nodded in agreement. ‘It’s true. Everywhere we go the land is rotting and dyin
g, and not only that, but the animals that live off the land will shortly follow suit. Maya, you’re the only chance of long term survival his people have.’

  Rakan snapped his fingers. ‘The other fact to remember is that the Witch-King will soon launch his attack on the Freestates. He might consider that sending more troops to find us and attack Laska an unnecessary distraction if he concludes we’re there. He has new lands to conquer and people to enslave.’

  ‘And new life to steal,’ added Maya softly.

  Taran and Rakan looked quizzically at Maya.

  ‘This might sound a little crazy,’ she continued, ‘but before I was captured, a man in red robes appeared in my dreams. He believes the Witch-King has a gift that drains the life from the land to sustain his immortality.’

  Taran scoffed a little, and Maya shrugged. ‘I told you it might sound crazy,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Would this man in red robes have a shaved head and be slight of build perhaps?’ asked Rakan.

  Maya looked surprised. ‘Yes. Did you dream of him too?’

  ‘No, but a man like that appeared to warn me of the Rangers approach. Without his warning, we wouldn’t be drawing breath right now. So knowing of the gifts you, Taran, the seers, and some of the Rangers have, I feel more inclined to believe you,’ Rakan said.

  Taran nodded and reached out to hold Maya’s forearm gently. ‘I am sorry I doubted you,’ he apologised, ‘and the Witch-King’s gift would explain so much about the constant sickening of everything around us.’

  ‘So,’ said Rakan, satisfied there was no one close, ‘how is that ankle of yours, Maya? Let’s see if it’s up to walking this morning.’

  With that they stood, and as Maya leaned on Taran’s shoulder for support, they headed east into the forest, toward the Forelorn mountains, toward Laska, and the next step of their journey.

  -----

  Laska was over ninety years of age, and he felt every one of them. He was a relic in more ways than one, having once been a minor lord in the Ember Kingdom, in those years so distant that they almost seemed like a dream.