Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  He turned to Brandon, and with his old eyes looked into the face of one so young and handsome, yet so devoid of compassion. He put his hand slowly on Brandon’s and lowered his voice as he mimicked Brandon’s whisper. ‘Firstly, young man, I have no fear of dying, in fact, it might be a blessing for one so old as me, but I recommend that dying at your age would be something to be avoided.’

  Brandon went to pull his hand away, to draw his blade, but Laska held on to it with surprising strength for one so old.

  ‘You and your men without question have skills beyond any of mine,’ Laska continued, ‘ but I think even you’ll find it hard to dodge all of the crossbow bolts, that are aimed at your heart at this very moment,’ and he nodded to the dark galleries set high around the hall.

  Brandon looked up, then drew his breath in with a hiss as he saw the bowmen in the shadows. ‘You dare threaten the voice of the king! Death and destruction will be visited not just upon you, but all of yours for defying the king’s will once he hears of this!’

  Laska shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me. I am not defying his will; you can have their lives,’ he said softly. But, we have a custom. They enjoy our hospitality for one night before I send them on their way. Tradition dictates it. You can have your killing, but not till the morrow, not until they leave the land of my settlement.’

  Brandon’s face contorted as he controlled his anger, then he snatched his hand away. ‘Enjoy this small moment,‘ he said, eyes full of contempt, ‘for I doubt you will have any such again in the short life that remains to you. But if it pleases my lord,’ and his voiced dripped with sarcasm, ‘I will keep a close eye on your guests to ensure they do not attempt escape or mischief.’

  Laska looked at Brandon. ‘If they escape and leave this settlement, you can do with them as you will. Be patient, Brandon, by tomorrow you will have your fill of blood one way or another.’

  Now it was in all the minds of everyone in the hall.

  Death had never been closer.

  -----

  Kalas felt nauseous. He was barely able to stand.

  After finding the crossing destroyed he’d journeyed north, driven to speed by the daemon’s demands in his mind, pressing him to hurry so that they could feed.

  He’d run north along the river for two days hoping for another bridge. Several times he’d had to hide within the tree line of the adjacent forest as troops of lancers rode by, searching for him, or the other three, which, it didn’t matter. The daemon pushed him onward with barely any rest, and his body became exhausted from lack of any real kind of sustenance, save occasional rotten berries.

  It was this constant push for haste that had led him to his current predicament.

  The forest had given way to a dusty, open plain, yet to his relief, there was also an unguarded bridge across the raging river. Kalas had thought it would be best to wait until dark before moving into the open, yet for some reason, he ignored his own advice and ran across the plain. The daemon had influenced even this decision to seem like it was his own.

  Amazingly he’d made it to the bridge and crossed over its rough wooden planks. For a while it looked as if the risky action would pay off as he ran south toward some woodland and the safety of its cover. Yet it wasn’t to be. As he’d run across the dusty ground, he heard the clatter of hooves on the bridge behind him and had known he’d never make it to the safety of the trees in time.

  Turning to face the enemy he’d seen twenty lancers spreading out into a long line.

  ‘Attack them,’ roared the daemon in his head. ‘You’ve overcome many more than this, and we need to eat.’

  So Kalas had charged. The lancers, rather than engage, used their horse's speed to stay out of reach, as they tried to lure him further from the safety of the trees to which he’d been heading.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ Kalas had said to the daemon. ‘If they’re not fighting, it’s because they’re delaying, waiting for something or someone.’ He started to move back toward the woods, fighting the daemon’s desires. It cried piteously at being denied the taste of so much life, but for now, it allowed Kalas’ will and experience to make the choice, but it had been too late.

  Other horsemen came from the northwest, and while they also carried lances, several carried bows for hunting. They didn’t need to put themselves close to Kalas’ swords to strike at him, and within moments their arrows hissed through the air. He didn’t dare turn his back to them for his armour only really protected his front, so he kept moving backwards. His swords deflected many of the arrows, while some bounced from his armour, but he was tiring fast.

  The lancers then tried to encircle him. As soon as Kalas recognised their intent, he knew if they got into position, he’d be dead. At that moment he’d turned and sprinted as fast as he could, running left then right, to put the archers off their aim.

  Suddenly the arrows stopped. Kalas knew this meant the lancers were closing in as the archers feared to hit them, so he’d turned and rolled under the flashing lance tips, his swords a blur as he cut the legs from two of the horses. The horses and their riders crashed, screaming to the ground as the others wheeled away. Kalas ran again.

  The woods were but a few strides away, when an arrow had caught him in the left shoulder, and then almost in the same instant, one thwacked into the back of his right leg. He’d rolled to the floor, the hafts of both arrows snapping.

  Despite the pain, he’d come up straight away, backing away, keeping the lancers at bay with his red stare and the threat of certain death if they came too close. He’d showed no fear as he retreated into the woods, and let the daemon scream its anger and frustration.

  The horses whinnied and shied, and the lancers had watched as he backed out of sight before they returned to their fallen comrades and lifted them onto saddles. They then slaughtered the two injured horses before withdrawing.

  The daemon had howled again, for with the horses dead, he couldn’t even feed on their meagre life force, and Kalas had sunk to his knees. He’d ripped his trouser leg away to assess the wound, and saw that the arrow had almost punched through the muscle on the outside of his thigh. He’d torn the filthy trouser leg into strips as a makeshift bandage, then reached behind to grasp what was left of the shaft of the arrow in his leg. It was slippery with blood, and he’d gripped it hard, before, with a sudden push, the head came out the front of his thigh.

  The pain had been excruciating, and his vision had misted, but the daemon lent what little strength it had left as he drew the arrow out. Blood flowed freely before he plugged the wound front and back with dirty cloth, and secured it with more strips of the same.

  Unfortunately, the broken shaft of the arrow behind his left shoulder had been unreachable and was still there.

  Now here he was a further two days later, slowly moving southward, hoping against hope to come across an injured animal that could give the daemon a small amount of life to help heal him. His vision was blurring, and he felt hot with fever. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘Come on,’ urged the daemon, yet Kalas could feel it was scared. It was scared of him dying and itself with him. Then, just like those fifty years ago, it started to withdraw, not willing to face death, hiding away once more in the back of his mind, allowing him to see clearly for the first time in weeks.

  Tears further misted his eyes, not out of self-pity, but at what he’d planned to do; kill the girl and her companions. For what? To satisfy the daemon’s curiosity as to whether her life force would further strengthen the daemon’s own. But the cost, the lives of those who had done him no harm!

  He’d lost sight of who he was, the values he’d once held dear, and felt ashamed.

  Better to die than become this monster again when there was no real hope of controlling it. Time to find a good place to end his days. He hobbled a little further until midday when he came across a small glade that let the meagre sunlight shine through.

  Kalas sat down with his back to the tree and closed his eyes
.

  Regret consumed him. He wouldn’t complete his first oath, to kill the Witch-King, but at least now he would keep his second one, to die himself having failed.

  He found a little relief recalling memories of old, casting his thoughts back to a time when he didn’t know better. The future had seemed so bright when he was young.

  His fondest recollection was the ceremony to mark his promotion when he’d become weapon master of the royal guard. He could still remember the feeling of pride as he’d received his swords from King Anders all those years ago. He’d never been so happy or so drunk.

  He smiled, albeit in pain, as he recalled Alano making a speech during the celebrations afterwards. He’d started with a tale of how he’d found Kalas in bed with a serving wench, and quoted Kalas’ favourite saying as the punchline, ‘Kalas is coming.’

  They’d been such good times.

  -----

  ‘I can’t think of a way out of this mess,’ said Rakan quietly, as he, Taran, and Maya, wandered around the settlement, shadowed constantly by Brandon and his Rangers along with several of Laska’s men.

  They’d been given free rein to wander as long as they didn’t attempt to leave the settlement, on pain of death, and now looked for anything that might help them. Everywhere around them seemed busy as they walked. Preparations were in full swing for a celebratory feast that night, for it was midsummer’s eve and tradition dictated that dancing and wine would flow despite the shortage of provisions.

  ‘I haven’t seen any horses or unattended weapons or anything that might help us so far,’ Maya added, then looked to Taran.

  Taran used his gift to delve into the minds of all around him, but again learned nothing of value. People’s thoughts were full of worry, hunger, desperation on the one hand, or eagerness to eat well that night for the first time in many moons on the other. Some looked upon them with pity, others with distrust or resentment, thinking it unfair that they’d be eating some of their precious food later that night.

  Taran shook his head. ‘All that I’ve learned doesn’t help us at all. This town’s small armoury is guarded within the cellar of Laska’s hall, and so far I’ve only seen guards carry weapons larger than a dagger. The only way we will be able to arm ourselves is by taking them from their dead bodies.

  ‘We shouldn’t take these people’s lives to extend our own,’ Maya stated. ‘These people have done us no ill. It’s the Witch-King and his Rangers who seek our deaths. If any die, it must only be them.’

  Rakan slowly shook his head. ‘I never thought I’d agree with that sentiment,’ he said, ‘but after all these years I must have gone soft. The problem is there’s no way we can get the weapons from just the Rangers without dying in the attempt.’

  ‘Maybe Laska will grant us sanctuary on the morrow?’ asked Maya innocently, but the look in Taran and Rakan’s eyes told her the truth of the matter, and deep down she’d known the answer even before she’d spoken.

  ‘Tomorrow he will cast us out, and as soon as we are beyond the walls of the settlement, the Rangers will finish what they’ve been sent to do. Laska has seen nothing to gain by keeping us alive and everything to lose. We have this day my friends, and unless a saviour appears in the shape of that warrior in silver armour … well, this could be the end of our journey together,’ Rakan said with sadness.

  ‘I just can’t get that man’s eyes out of my head,’ said Maya, and looked back at Brandon. ‘He is using some kind of gift against me I’m sure. If only I could show Laska how I could help heal his land, maybe he would reconsider.’

  One of Laska’s men approached and stood before them.

  ‘Just in case you want to sleep during your last night with us,’ he laughed, affirming what they already knew, ‘there are two cabins you can use. Follow me.’

  He took them through the muddy ground of the settlement to the two cabins which backed onto the rocky side of the mountain. ‘One for the husband and wife, and one for the old man.’ He laughed again, walking away.

  ‘Please thank whosoever let us use their lodgings!’ called Maya.

  The guard paused and looked over his shoulder. ‘You can thank them soon yourselves. They died last month.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised,’ muttered Rakan. ‘I doubt I’ll sleep much anyway if there’s drinking and dancing. Who knows, maybe the guards will get drunk or distracted, and we can try to make our escape.’

  Yet his words sounded hollow, and neither Maya nor Taran felt any better as they started to scout the huge settlement again, the shadows of the Rangers close behind them.

  -----

  Astren sat astride a horse and wondered if his back was going to break.

  Having discovered Anthain’s betrayal and come up with the plan to defeat him, he was now officially Tristan’s closest advisor. Thus he found himself jarred mercilessly as they headed to where he never dreamed he would go … toward a battle. Four days in the saddle had already passed with twice as many to come before they arrived at Tristan’s folly.

  The guardsmen who remained loyal were back at the capital. They’d been tasked to train a peasant levy as guards to ensure civil unrest didn’t break out. That they’d been promised many of the newly vacated merchant houses as a reward upon Tristan’s return, only increased their allegiance to him further.

  Astren had always planned to disappear quietly should word of the citadel falling reach the capital. If such an event should occur, he’d already used a considerable amount of money to secure a carriage and guards to see him to the desert tribes, with enough left over to buy himself a retirement far from the war. At least until it caught up with him, as he was sure it would someday. Now, all that money and all those plans might well be going to waste if he couldn’t find a way to get back home again.

  Tristan, who rode alongside looking far more comfortable in the saddle, smiled.

  ‘Astren, my friend, here we are, riding to war. Isn’t this preferable to running away to those stinking desert tribesmen?’ and he said the last bit quietly, for they rode at the head of the spearmen who had helped put down the insurrection.

  Astren’s insides turned to ice, and Tristan laughed so loud and full of humour that Astren almost cried with relief.

  ‘Oh, Astren. However deep your pockets are, mine are deeper. You should know that whoever you pay, I pay them more to tell me about all that you do. If I were worried about your loyalty, your head would be the only thing accompanying me on this trip. Still, as you had arranged to escape, only should the citadel fall, I thought it better if we had you invest some of your talents in ensuring that it didn’t fall at all. That way I can enjoy your company that much longer.’

  Tristan became serious again. ‘If only my sources were as good as I thought, then Anthain wouldn’t have gotten as close to usurping me as he did.’

  Then he laughed as Astren almost slid off of his saddle. ‘I swear watching you ride a horse is the funniest thing I have ever seen … by the gods, I swear it!’

  Astren shook his head. ‘Us low born were given two good feet to walk with. Only the noble class have pokers inserted up their backsides at birth that enable them to ride as if attached to the saddle.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s a solid gold poker, solid gold!’ retorted Tristan. ‘It won’t be long, Astren, before we see where my gold has been going these last six months. I want to inspire the men at the citadel, and let’s not forget, they’re less likely to betray me if I’m there overseeing them.

  Tristan stood in his saddle and turned to the men who marched behind; the desert spearmen and the Eyre archers. He drew his sword, then raised it above his head, and while he looked somewhat diminutive, he still had a good voice.

  ‘For honour and for glory. We march to save the Freestates!’ Tristan shouted.

  ‘To hell with the honour, to hell with the glory, we do it for money!’ roared the troops at his back. Tristan fell back in his saddle and laughed so hard he almost fell off.

  ‘The honesty of the peasa
nt is priceless,’ he cried, ‘priceless.’

  -----

  ‘I think they’ll be quite happy to see us dead,’ Maya said sadly to Taran and Rakan, as she looked across one of the many roaring fires that were scattered throughout the settlement. Many looks of distrust were turned their way as they were given platters of meats and goblets of wine to join in with the midsummer celebrations. They sat upon a log that had been hauled from the forest. It was covered in thick moss, and with the heat of the fire warming the bones, felt somewhat comfortable.

  Some of the settlement’s people were oblivious to the tension, blissfully unaware of the fate that would soon befall the visitors in their midst, or perhaps it was that the wine was more plentiful than the food, but dancing started to break out. Laughter, so rarely heard these days, rang clearly. The beat of drums and the sound of various instruments filled the air.

  Maya had such a terrible headache. She kept trying to use her gift, even in the smallest of ways, yet every time she tried, Brandon’s eyes would fill her thoughts, and it seemed as if her gift had never been further from her reach.

  Taran looked around surreptitiously. More of Laska’s guards stood in the shadows, and across the fire, Brandon and the Rangers sat. The Rangers all sipped sparingly from their drinks, and never took their eyes off their prize that lay so close.

  As Taran’s gaze continued to rove, they were met by a woman’s whose own eyes stared back almost in a challenge. She smiled broadly as his attention lingered a moment, and he hastily looked away, slightly embarrassed, and unconsciously his hand sought Maya’s next to him.

  A few moments later, as he listened to the music, gazing down at the fire deep in thought, a pair of sandaled feet stopped before him. He looked up, and his heart sank, for there stood the woman. She was quite a beauty, of that there was no doubt, and in days past Taran would have enjoyed finding out what lay behind that bold smile, but now he wished she would find someone else to bother.

  She smiled enticingly, but Taran didn’t respond, and he felt Maya stiffen ever so slightly beside him.