Kings and Daemons

by Marcus Lee

  The laughter wasn’t doing Tristan’s mood any good. ‘Can’t you stop laughing?’ he growled, as they neared the keep. ‘And you,’ he said pointedly at Drizt, ‘perhaps keep your repertoire of jokes and riddles to yourself. This is no laughing situation.’

  ‘King Tristan,’ Drizt responded, bowing low in an exaggerated fashion. ‘You have paid good coin for my men and I to fight and perhaps even die in your employ at the point of a sword, but I have no recollection of said contract saying I would ever face dying of boredom.’

  Astren held his breath waiting for Tristan to explode, but before Tristan could react, Sancen began to laugh, that deep booming laugh.

  ‘Die of boredom, die of boredom. Does anyone else get it? Drizt, you are the funniest green skin I have ever known. In fact, you are the only green skin I have ever known!’ and then he started laughing at his own joke.

  Tristan couldn’t help but smile a little. ‘Astren, let’s leave these two simpletons to look after their men, while us educated individuals find out what in the hells is going on.’

  As they approached the keep, they were finally challenged by two guards who sat at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked one, and pushed back his helm to scratch his forehead, nodding at Tristan and Astren. ‘You look a little familiar,’ he said to Tristan, ‘I think I might know you from somewhere. But you,’ he frowned at Astren, ‘I’ve not seen you before. What are you doing here?’

  Astren looked over at Tristan to see his face growing that dangerous shade of red and yet Tristan controlled his anger just enough. But when he spoke, it was with menace.

  ‘You do know me,’ replied Tristan, ‘for you swore an oath of allegiance to me when you put on that uniform. You do know me, because it's me who pays you coin every month, and you do know me, because this is MY BLOODY CITADEL!’

  Into the silence that followed this declaration, Tristan threw off his dusty robe to stand resplendent in the armour of the King of the Freestates.

  Even though he was diminutive and slightly balding, still he had a commanding presence about him, and the guards now appreciating who stood before them, sprung to attention. Other soldiers were wandering or sitting around, and Tristan’s shout drew them, and they hastily pulled armour straight or put on helms, as they understood who was in their midst.

  ‘Now you know who I am, show me to the commander of my citadel.’ Tristan glanced across at Astren.

  ‘Elender,’ Astren helpfully prompted.

  ‘Yes, Elender,’ Tristan confirmed. ‘Take me to him now!’

  The two guards looked at one another, and there was a subtle shrug of the shoulders that neither Tristan or Astren missed, as they started walking up the steps to the keep's entrance.

  Tristan saw Dritz, standing with Sancen, pretending they hadn’t listened to the exchange.

  ‘Oh, come on you two,’ said Tristan, beckoning them over. ‘You are my official bodyguards as of now.’

  Drizt pumped his fist in the air. ‘Yes!’ he said, and jogged over with Sancen lumbering behind. ‘You hear that, Sancen, we are getting an enormous pay rise!’ The four of them followed the guards up the steep steps. Drizt whistled. ‘Sancen, my slow friend. When is a doorway just a way?’

  ‘When there’s no door,’ boomed Sancen, and Drizt slapped him on the back as they approached the archway, which should have held the heavy reinforced doors to the keep, but instead, was just an empty, stone arch.

  ‘Guards,’ Tristan called, and the two of them stopped and turned to face him. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why in the first line of defence, the curtain wall has no gate, and the keep, the last line of defence, also has no door? I’m at a loss, and whereas my two friends,’ and he raised his eyebrows at Drizt and Sancen who were still laughing, ‘find this somewhat amusing, I am more of a mind to be, worried, concerned, or maybe bloody furious would explain it better.’ As he said the last words, his voice rose to a shout again.

  The guards exchanged horrified looks while they tried to think of something to say.

  Tristan sighed. ‘Forget it. I’m sure Elender will have a good answer, because if not, Sancen here is going to throw him off the top of this keep.’

  They walked through the dark entranceway, past numerous gloomy passageways lit with flickering torches, and then started ascending the circular stone stairwell, following the guards who advised that Elender’s quarters were at the top, the fifth and final floor.

  It was cold inside the keep, backed against, the very mountains from which it was hewn. Astren shivered, even as he laboured up the steps. Sancen was muttering about the cold too, and Astren knew he would feel it even more having come from the hot desert far to the southeast.

  Drizt, on the other hand, as ever, was enjoying himself. He was so light and agile, and the many steps bothered him not at all, and every time they went past an arrow slit, he would peer out, and nod in approval - especially as they got higher.

  ‘Personally,’ Drizt said, ’I prefer to live in my swamp, amongst the trees. Yet to fight from up here, my arrows will fly so far as to be given wings.’

  Finally, they reached the top floor and stopped and stared. Opulence was a given in the Freestates, but the one place it was not to be expected was the western frontier in this citadel, and yet as they came to the top of the cold stone stairwell, finery was everywhere. A thick red carpet lined the floors, mirrors abounded, and tapestries hung from several wall spaces. There were also several imposing carved stone busts.

  Astren peered at one. ‘I don’t recognise who this is,’ he said to Tristan. ‘It’s good workmanship for sure, but which old king is it a likeness of?’

  Tristan shook his head, so Astren looked at one of the guards enquiringly.

  ‘That is Elender,’ the guard offered.

  ‘You pay your garrison commander a lot of money,’ observed Sancen. ‘Do you pay bodyguards a lot as well?’

  ‘No,’ said Tristan. ‘I certainly don’t think the coin I pay could ever extend to this opulence.’

  ‘Something certainly doesn’t smell right here,’ stated Drizt with a more serious demeanour. No gates, no men, now all this. Something is amiss.’

  The guards were taking off their boots.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Tristan in wonder.

  ‘Lord Elender doesn’t allow us to wear them in his chambers,’ shrugged one.

  ‘Keep your boots on, men,’ said Tristan, and when the guard hesitated, he asked. ‘Whose authority is higher, the commander of this garrison, or the king to which the commander owes allegiance?’

  So with boots on, the six of them made dusty footprints on the red carpet, as they walked down the long hallway, past open doors, leading to rooms all equally well-appointed.

  ‘These are his work chambers,’ said one, and bowed, standing back to one side of a large door.

  Voices could be heard faintly from within.

  ‘They do have some good doors then,’ commented Sancen.

  Drizt chuckled and slapped the big man on the back, yet there was a seriousness in his eye when he said. ‘Not all good doors open onto good things,’ and his hand went to the hilt of his dirk.

  Tristan picked up on Drizt’s veiled warned and turned to the two guards. ‘You are dismissed,’ he said, and after a brief hesitation, they walked back through the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.

  Sancen put his hand on the iron door ring and looked at Tristan, who nodded. Sancen pushed the door open, and they stepped quietly through, one by one, into a large chamber.

  It was, like the hallway before it, furnished beautifully. Heavy carved wooden chairs surrounded a large table upon which were numerous parchments and charts. Polished and ornate cupboards were placed around the room, and heavy rugs covered the cold floor. To their left was a series of stone archways that led out onto the battlements overlooking the pass.

  Outside, stood a man and woman deep in conversation. The man, from the likeness to the busts in the hallway, wa
s Elender, and he wore the embellished armour of a commander. The woman looked vaguely familiar to Astren, and although without armour, was armed with a sword and dagger.

  As they walked quietly across the chamber, both Elender and the woman caught sight of them and turned. Elender’s face twisted in anger. ‘How dare you!’ he started to rage, then caught sight of Tristan, bedecked in his finery behind the bulk of Sancen.

  ‘My, my, King,’ he stammered. He looked at the woman with panic in his eyes, then as his face flushed red, he started to kneel.

  ‘I’ve seen that woman before with Anthain,’ said Astren, recognising her.

  The woman said nothing but inclined her head slightly to Astren in acknowledgement, then drew her weapons and attacked.

  -----

  Taran entered the cellars below the hall alone.

  Rakan and Maya had argued that they should accompany him, yet he knew if they were there, he would be distracted.

  ‘How is it you think you can help Kalas?’ Maya had asked.

  ‘In all honesty, I don’t know, and won't until I try,’ Taran had responded. ‘But, since our night together, both of our gifts have come back stronger. So who knows what is now possible?‘

  So now Rakan and Maya waited at the top of the stone steps as Taran looked through the bars of a door at the shackled figure, and then motioned for the guards to unbar it.

  ‘My Lord,’ said one, bowing to him. ‘The prisoner seems to change all the time. One moment himself, begging to be killed, the next silent. Then when his eyes turn red,’ and the man shuddered, ‘the voice is something I will always hear in my nightmares.’

  The guards retreated quickly as Taran walked into the room. He sat on a wooden bench several long steps from Kalas, who wore simple homespun trousers and shirt. Taran wondered if he was asleep which might make things easier, but even as the thought crossed his mind, Kalas looked up.

  ‘Why are you here, lad?’ asked Kalas, his voice sounding tired. ‘You don’t look like an executioner to me, although in my saner moments, I doubt I look like a daemon-possessed warrior either!’ and he laughed mirthlessly. ‘Seriously though, I am lost. I thought to control him, but since he has come back, I have done nothing but kill, and I would have killed you and your friends too.

  ‘He’s coming!’ Kalas gasped, and his face twisted in pain, eyes glazing, and then the next moment he was straining at the chains, the screams coming from his mouth from another plane of existence.

  The flickering torches on the walls, those shining red eyes, and the unearthly screams, almost made Taran flee, yet he steadied his resolve. He took a deep breath as the daemon screeched at him, called upon his gift, and reached out. This time he was slow and careful, trying to find a way past the terrible rage and darkness that boiled in the front of Kalas’ mind, instead of charging right in.

  Amongst this storm of violent, torturous, and degrading thoughts, were flashes of a woman and child, laughter and comradeship, love and duty, loyalty and friendship. Yet this time Taran turned his mind’s eye away from all of these flashing images, and searched, not knowing for what until he eventually found it.

  In front of him, there was a bubble of sorts that changed colour from dark to light. He pushed his way through, escaping from the kaleidoscope of memories to the relative tranquillity within. He now stood on a dark hill with storm clouds boiling above, and there stood two identical men locked in mortal combat, weapons of all kinds strewn around. As Taran drew closer, he could see, as he knew it would be, that both were Kalas, clad in silver armour, wielding two swords as they fought for what … control of his soul?

  ‘Help me!’ cried one. ‘I cannot stand against him much longer.‘

  Taran reached down and picked up a discarded sword then stepped forward, yet even as he did so, the flow of battle changed, and the other one also cried for his assistance.

  Taran looked at their green eyes as they fought. There was no giveaway there, so how could he tell them apart?

  Blades clashed together, and each of them lost a sword as they shattered into shards. Taran could see that they were identically matched in skill, neither able to gain a lasting advantage. He stepped in close, yet knew he was safe, for if the daemon Kalas tried to kill him, then the good one would have an opening to slay the other, and the battle would be won in that instant.

  Back and forward they thrust and parried, spun and leapt, neither gaining the upper hand, and Taran sought for something, anything, to identify the good from the evil.

  Suddenly, the flurry of blows came to a halt, as each Kalas grasped the wrist of the others sword hand, locked together, as muscles strained and veins bulged with effort.

  ‘Kill him, and save us,’ groaned one, and his arms shook as he took a small step back, ‘I can’t hold him!’

  Taran knew what to do. In the blink of an eye, he thrust his sword into the one who’d cried for help.

  ‘You fool, it’s not me. It’s him!’ his victim cried, but Taran twisted the blade, driving it deeper, and the man’s knees buckled, and he fell to the floor.

  Taran stepped back, pulling the sword free as the remaining Kalas turned to face him, a smile spreading across his face. Suddenly, Kalas’ sword whipped out fast, and Taran’s blade parried first one, two, then three strokes, that were so quick he surprised even himself, and yet the fourth parry saw the sword spun from his hand.

  The tip of Kalas’ weapon lifted to Taran’s throat. ‘Very impressive,’ Kalas said, ‘but not good enough, although with training, you could be deadly.’ Kalas lowered his sword and let it fall from his fingers. He stepped forward and embraced Taran briefly, before grasping his wrist as one warrior would to another. ‘How did you know?’ Kalas asked, ‘Was it a guess?’

  Taran nodded down at the floor. ‘It was in the footwork.’

  Kalas shook his head. ‘No, we were identical,’ he argued, ‘there was no way we were different.’

  ‘Your skill and movement were the same,’ admitted Taran, ‘but you see, I believed you and he were fighting for your respective souls, and his being a daemon’s, is far darker and heavier than yours. Everywhere he stepped, he left an imprint, whereas you never left a mark.’

  Above them, the clouds dissipated. Light began to flood across the hilltop, and the body on the floor faded away.

  ‘Is he truly gone?’ asked Taran.

  Kalas nodded. ‘I think so, but let us see for ourselves.’

  Taran opened his eyes in the cell. The torches still flickered, and he shivered, soaked in a cold sweat.

  Kalas sat looking at him, hope shining from his green eyes. ‘Keep alert,’ he said. ‘We need to make sure. Now, cut me,’ he instructed.

  Taran stood and drew his dagger. ‘How much?’

  ‘If the daemon is gone, then I’d rather it as little as possible!’

  Taran leant forward cautiously and lightly drew the dagger across Kalas’ bound forearm, then stood watching as beads of blood formed and slowly dripped to the floor. ‘What are we waiting for?’ he asked.

  Kalas looked up. ‘The daemon could heal minor wounds instantly,’ he replied, ‘but, as you can see, the blood flow is slowing on its own. We need to try one more thing. The daemon was dormant for almost fifty years before it was awoken by the taste of blood from another. Cut yourself and place your bloodied blade upon my tongue. If the daemon remains, I'm sure it won’t be able to resist!’

  Taran winced as he made a small cut, and presented the dagger to Kalas, who licked some of the blood from the flat of the blade.

  Moments later Kalas spat on the floor, and when he looked up, his eyes were moist. ‘I truly no longer feel his presence,’ he smiled. ‘I will never forget the debt I owe you for this.’

  Taran called for the guards, then sent them to tell Laska of their success. Maya and Rakan came running at the sound of his voice.

  Maya flung herself into Taran’s arms, relieved beyond belief that he was unharmed and they sat down.

  Rakan spoke. ‘Taran h
ere has told us a wild tale of whom he believes you to be. Even if it is half true, then you have a story unlike any other to tell, so best you talk.’

  ‘Where would you like me to start?’ asked Kalas.

  Maya smiled. ‘Where all stories should start, at the beginning.’

  -----

  As the woman moved forward, both Tristan and Astren backed away.

  Astren wasn’t armed, and even if he were, he had no skill with weapons whatsoever. Tristan drew his sword, but he gave ground, knowing his skill was limited.

  Drizt and Sancen however, moved forward, noting the confidence with which the woman held herself, and the steady look in her eyes.

  Drizt had two heavy dirks, one in each hand as he sidestepped nimbly forward, and Sancen drew a short sword and a dagger and circled a table to attack the woman from behind.

  However, the woman didn’t wait. She leapt onto the table and jumped over Sancen’s sweeping sword, her own flashing out in a blistering response, cutting a deep furrow in the desert man’s brow, causing him to leap back, shouting in pain, blood flowing freely into his eyes.

  The woman moved forward to deliver the killing blow, but Drizt jumped on to the table behind her, and she turned to face the new threat knowing Sancen was out of the fight.

  Astren ran to help Sancen who had dropped his blade and fallen to the floor, and Astren realised the wound was worse than he thought.

  Tristan ran forward, shouting to distract the swordswoman, but she kicked out and caught him on the jaw, spilling him to the ground. Now just the woman and Drizt faced one another.

  Drizt attacked, and Astren was amazed to see his speed and skill considering he was an archer, and yet the swordswoman was unfazed by the man’s shorter weapons and reach. She blocked every blow with ease, while her own flicked out in response, making a dozen small cuts all over Drizt’s body and arms. Drizt was fast enough to escape several killing blows, but he couldn’t evade them entirely.

  Suddenly, the woman’s sword came up meeting one of Drizt’s dirks in a ringing blow and knocked it out of his hand, and then, as her dagger caught Drizt’s other blade, her sword slashed out toward Drizt’s throat.