Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  Nowadays when he tried to think back, the good memories of which there were few, would fade like mist before the midday sun, but he could still vividly remember the ones containing pain and anguish, especially those regarding the loss of his sons.

  He and his forebears had ruled over the southernmost spur of the realm, and had done so for generations. They were not a wealthy family in comparison to many of their peers, for instead of iron mines, they had lands abutting the coast, and thus they mostly lived off the sea’s bounty and the meagre income this generated. Still, even if they had little material wealth, they were well fed, as were the peasantry for whom they were responsible, and there was always a food surplus that was sent encased in blocks of ice to the capital by fast wagon.

  The eastern border of their lands flanked the Forelorn mountains. His father and his father’s father had spent many years trying to discover the riches they believed might lay within, be it iron, precious metals or gemstones.

  He still remembered the day as a young boy, when after almost two generations of unsuccessful exploration, his father’s engineers had reported that they’d mined into a series of natural caverns and faults that led through the mountains into a large verdant valley. They were now waiting on their lord before they proceeded any further, so that he might be the first to step foot on this new land, and claim it for his own.

  It seemed like the fortunes of the family, which for so long had languished, might soon change. An expedition was organised, his father and a retinue of his guard, with Laska, all on horseback. Anticipation filled each and every one of them.

  A few days’ journey had taken them to the foot of the mountain, and then a day of climbing had taken them to a narrow tunnel entrance, that seemed to be so dark and foreboding, that Laska had cried in fright. He remembered his father had laughed and picked him up, and told him everything would be alright. They’d lit torches and spent almost half of the following day stooping through natural crevices and rough-hewn tunnels, supported by beams. The lead engineer, a swarthy short man with a dark beard, had led the way. Laska had relaxed a little, soothed by his father’s voice and the excitement it held.

  They’d reached the exit into the valley just as the sun was setting. There before them, barely visible through thick woodland, lay a valley to the north so vast and green, that his father and his men had turned and hugged one another, and Laska was swept up in the excitement over this beautiful place.

  That night had been spent in the tunnel, warmed by a fire as his father organised how the men would split into three groups of twenty. The plan was to map and explore the valley then return in seven days to report on whatever riches it might hold.

  The next morning, everyone had excitedly bid farewell to one another. The two other groups headed north and northeast, as he, his father, along with their guard and an engineer, started to skirt the southern side of the valley toward the east.

  The main hope was that these mountains would show signs of mineral wealth. The valley itself was beautiful, the trees huge, yet whilst its beauty was captivating, this would not improve the family fortunes. So for the next two days, they walked at the base of the mountains. The engineer chipped away at the rock and inspected the beds of the many streams, fed by meltwater from the mountain tops.

  Frequently, a strange, mournful sound would echo, and the engineer assured a worried Laska that it was the sound of the wind through the mountain passes, and nothing to be afraid of.

  On the third day, they came to the far side off the valley, and there in the mountainside was an enormous fissure. They made camp and explored a little, only to find that there were a series of caverns heading further eastward. While no evidence of mineral wealth had been found, his father was excited nonetheless, for if this network of caves and fissures extended far enough, it might open into the very lands of the Freestates themselves. A new trade route, with all the riches that would come with it, was possibly theirs for the taking.

  They’d pushed into the caverns early the next morning and spent a whole day exploring, at the end of which they’d found themselves on the other side of the mountains, the lands of the great trading nation to the east at their very feet. Even though there was nothing to celebrate with, the mood of the party was exuberant.

  The following morning had seen them return, back into the mountains once more, aware they might be late for their rendezvous with the other groups. But the extra energy brought on by the excitement saw them make up lost time, especially as they no longer stopped to survey. Unexpectedly they’d made it back faster than anticipated, and were the first group to arrive at their initial camp.

  So they waited, a day, then another.

  Two days beyond the allotted rendezvous, Laska’s father, whose good mood had slowly evaporated while waiting for his other men, decided to forge northeast in their tracks to meet them on their return. His demeanour was now such that Laska knew that the other groups would regret keeping their lord waiting.

  However, early on into the second day, they had found the first group, or what little was left of them in a wooded glade.

  That there’d been a fight was evident. The ground was churned and bloody, trees splintered, shards of swords and scraps of uniforms scattered around. As they had scouted the area, a body was discovered, impaled on a branch, high in a tree, barely visible through the foliage. What force had thrown a large armoured man there, was beyond imagining.

  They’d backed away from the scene of the fight then, swords drawn, eyes alert, and Laska could remember how he could barely breathe he was so scared. Just as they reached the edge of the small clearing, from the treeline opposite, a giant had stepped. Almost as tall as the trees around it, it was at least four times the size of their biggest man, dressed in furs and with a club.

  ‘May the gods have mercy,’ his father had breathed, then kept Laska behind him as they continued to move away, back into the undergrowth.

  For a moment it seemed as if the creature would let them go, but it raised its head, and a strange, mournful, warbling, sounded from its throat.

  ‘It’s calling for help,’ the captain of the guards had shouted, as he took three swift steps forward. He’d thrown his spear across the clearing. It was a throw of consummate skill, a testament to years of practice, for it took the giant in the taut skin of its throat, and stopped its call abruptly.

  Fury had lit the creature’s eyes as it crossed the clearing in just four enormous bounds, and its club swept down to fling the captain away, broken. The man was lifeless before he hit the ground amongst the trees.

  For a moment, everyone had stood transfixed at the behemoth’s speed and the ease with which it had dispatched a man who’d spent his life mastering the use of arms. It had then turned toward Laska and his father, but as it stepped toward them, its legs buckled, and it fell to its knees. One huge arm still supported it, prevented it from collapsing completely, as its baleful eyes swept across the remaining men.

  His father ran forward and swept his sword across the back of the giant’s arm, and as it gave way, the giant fell on to the haft of the spear still protruding from its neck. The spear was driven through its spine, and the creature died instantly.

  A sergeant and three men had gotten over their shock and ran forward to form a guard around Laska and his father, as they started to make haste back along their trail toward the tunnel. However, as they did, mournful cries sounded again and again, from all around them.

  ‘We need to run. Strip off your armour, quickly now!’ his father had commanded.

  The rest of the day passed by in a series of horrific events, as giants crashed from the undergrowth. His father’s men sacrificed their lives one by one as they baited the giants away from the group, to give their lord more time to escape.

  It was almost dark by the time just Laska, in his father’s arms, and the engineer reached the base of the slope that led to the tunnel entrance. They were only halfway up, stumbling, exhausted, when a dozen of the beasts
had burst from the tree line behind them.

  ‘I love you, my son,’ his father gasped. It was the first, and last time Laska had ever heard those words from his father’s lips. Then his father had thrust Laska into the arms of the engineer who continued up the slope. Laska struggled in the engineer’s grasp, and his small arms reached out beseechingly for his father. But his father had already turned away and having drawn his sword was charging at the closing giants.

  Laska had closed his eyes then, hearing his father’s battle cry cut short. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and his sobs were matched by the engineers. His father’s sacrifice had allowed them to reach the small tunnel moments before the giants, and they’d found sanctuary beyond their pursuers’ reach.

  He’d sworn a vow never to return to the mountains after that.

  Over the years that followed, King Anders, acting upon Laska’s father’s discovery, had sent emissaries to try to make contact with the giants. To make peace was the Ember Kingdom’s desire, yet every time it was rebuffed with blood, for without being able to communicate, never once was progress made.

  Laska, as he grew into his role of Lord of his realm, poured all his energy into the raising of his newborn sons, demanding their loyalty, farming the bounty of the sea, his dreams plagued by nightmares.

  How quickly and easily, his vow had been broken.

  The arrival of the Witch-King’s overwhelming army years later, forced Laska to hastily retreat with his remaining son and people to the very mountain caves that held such painful memories, in an attempt to escape the slaughter.

  A year after the fall of the kingdom, Daleth, along with almost three thousand men, surrounded the stockade Laska and his people had erected at the base of the mountain range, and finally, Laska thought the end of days was upon him. Yet, Daleth had not immediately ordered the attack. He’d asked for a temporary truce and sought an audience with Laska. Upon entering the compound with his bodyguard, he’d looked around at the misery and suffering and almost seemed satisfied.

  Laska stared death in the face that day, as Daleth told him he would spare his people, but asked if there was any good reason to spare him as a former lord of the Ember Kingdom, or indeed his son. In desperation, he’d told Daleth of the valley of the giants, and its potential value as a dangerous but secret route into the Freestates, and how he was the only one to know of its whereabouts.

  Daleth had listened to the tale with amusement. A valley of the giants, surely a desperate falsehood. Yet he’d concluded that there was little point to Laska lying, if but to delay death by a day, so had given him a chance to prove his story.

  Laska had shown Daleth and his bodyguard through the mountains to the mouth of the tunnel exit, and looked upon the site of his father’s death.

  Daleth had gazed in wonder at the verdant valley and ordered several of his men to venture out toward the distant treeline to scout. As they’d run down across the open ground, the strange, mournful cry of the giants rose up, and shortly after all the men were dead. Daleth had stared open-mouthed as the giants dispatched his skilled warriors with ease, then he turned back into the tunnels without a word.

  Later that evening, Laska had been offered his life and that of his son along with his title. In return, he would owe fealty to his new king, assist in the passage of kingdom agents, and keep his people isolated. Laska unsurprisingly accepted.

  Daleth had left that night, and over the years they’d been left alone to eke out their lives in the harsh lands they’d chosen as home.

  Yet such was Laska’s leadership and strength, that the original few hundred refugees grew to almost a thousand, and Laska offered sanctuary to those who found their way to his land. Despite this success, his remaining son perished to sickness, leaving behind two grandchildren whom he now loved above all else.

  Yet now he stared death in the face again.

  He didn’t worry about himself dying, he’d seen too much pain and misery already, and was the oldest man alive that he knew of other than the Witch-King. But his grandchildren, his people, he wanted them to live. They’d known nothing but hardship, yet they were good.

  The crops planted this season had failed, and the land his hunter’s roamed had sickened to such a state that now the animals were starting to succumb to hunger. Women who gave birth died along with their babies, so to get pregnant was a death sentence, and there were no longer any young children running around.

  With only two months of stored provisions before they ran out of food, Laska had risked sending two of his men out far beyond where they were allowed to go. The news they returned with was dire. The land, as far as they had ridden, was at death’s door. Whole villages of men, women and children dying from starvation, and Daleth’s army was soon to march on the Freestates who it was claimed was behind the cause of this evil.

  If they stayed, starvation would kill them. If they took the other choice of trying to enter the valley of the giants, again they would die, although maybe that quick death was preferable to a slow one. The final option was sleep weed. Take too much, and you would pass away in your dreams. Perhaps this would be the best way for his people when they ran out of food.

  Then there was the Ranger who stood before him, demanding the heads of the two men and a young woman who now stood outside the hall waiting for an audience, hoping for sanctuary.

  It seemed death had never been closer.

  -----

  Chapter XVII

  Rakan, Taran, and Maya, after four long days of travel from the river, had decided not to approach Laska’s settlement by stealth, as it might give the impression they were untrustworthy. So, earlier that morning as the sun was rising, they’d walked openly up to the gates where Rakan asked the guards to present them to Laska, who he knew from times past.

  Despite the reservation in the guards’ eyes as they looked upon the three hungry and thirsty, bedraggled strangers, they were escorted through the settlement, and after a short wait were shown into the hall where Laska awaited them.

  Rakan had spoken for them all. He’d told of Taran being Maya’s husband, and he Taran’s father. He wove a story of Maya’s incredible gift as a healer, of not only people but the land, and how she could help save the settlement if they were allowed sanctuary; an arrangement that would surely benefit everyone.

  It was an impassioned plea, and now as Rakan finished, Taran squeezed Maya’s hand, hope in both their eyes as they waited for Laska to speak.

  Laska, his face impassive, sat in his favourite chair and studied the three standing below him. He vaguely recognised Rakan and had let the man have his moment, but was under instruction to have them killed irrespective. However, now his interest was piqued, and he needed to bide for time, come up with a way to follow his orders without looking like Daleth’s lap dog.

  Laska coughed to clear his throat, then nodded at Maya. ‘If you have such a power of healing as Rakan claims, then why are you limping like a lame horse?’ But before she could answer, he spoke again. ‘Show me your gift!’

  As Maya started to concentrate, from the shadows, a Ranger stepped forward, nine more behind him, hands on the hilt of their swords. Maya’s gasp of dismay was echoed by Rakan and Taran.

  They all looked around for an avenue of escape, but the doors to the hall were shut and guarded, and there was an unusual amount of armed men present, considering they were just three unarmed fugitives.

  ‘What should we do?’ asked Taran and Maya at the same time.

  Rakan shook his head in defeat. ‘This is a battle we can’t win. We need to see how this plays out, so don’t fight until there is no other choice.’

  Maya’s hand sought Taran’s.

  He looked at her, and his heart ached as he recognised his failure at keeping her safe. They’d made it so far, but now faced being butchered without a chance.

  Laska smiled coldly. ‘This is Brandon, a Ranger of the king, and he advises me you are all under sentence of death. I don’t know what I find hardest to believe, t
hat you have the power of healing, or that twenty or so Rangers have left this world while trying to hunt down one young woman, and her two companions.

  ‘Show me this supposed ability to heal!’ he commanded Maya again. ‘Give me a reason to offer you sanctuary and not to have your head removed from your shoulders.’ Disbelief was on his face as he said this, but he leaned forward expectantly.

  Maya looked up at Laska, reaching for her gift, but as she did, she felt Brandon’s gaze. All the Rangers she’d seen so far had dead black eyes, but Brandon’s were ice blue, and they melted her concentration. However hard she tried to reach for it, her gift wasn’t there, and despite trying again, all she could see were those cold blue eyes in her mind.

  There was silence for what seemed a lifetime as everyone looked expectantly at Maya until she shook her head in defeat. Tears of frustration were in her eyes as she looked first at Taran, then up at Laska. ‘I am sorry. For whatever reason, I can’t, but it has something to do with him,’ she said, nodding at Brandon.

  Brandon’s laugh was as cold as his blue eyes. ‘What use is a healer who cannot heal. To add to their crimes, they lie to the lord of this hall. Kill them!’ he commanded, and the men-at-arms around the hall looked to Laska for his agreement.

  Laska hesitated. It was a tradition for all seeking safety to be granted a night’s sanctuary while their fate was decided, this was the law that he himself had decreed, and then also as a lord, he wasn’t used to being ordered around in front of his men.

  Tired of the delay, Brandon put his hand firmly on Laska’s shoulder where he sat. Leaning forward, the Ranger whispered in his ear. ‘Order your men to kill them, or I will cut your throat where you sit.’

  Laska, at that moment, had been about to issue the order, but the Ranger’s threat, his demeanour, and his good looks irked him. Then to be commanded in his hall was something he couldn’t countenance.