Kings and Daemons

  KINGS AND DAEMONS

  KINGS AND

  DAEMONS

  MARCUS LEE

  BOOK 1

  THE GIFTED AND THE CURSED

  Copyright © 2020 by Marcus Lee

  All rights reserved. The rights of Marcus French to be identified as the author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Paperback ISBN: 9798646561931

  For more information visit: www.marcusleebooks.com

  First paperback edition May 2020

  First ebook edition May 2020

  Book design by Jacqueline Abromeit

  M&M

  ♥

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  THE GIFTED AND THE CURSED TRILOGY

  ***

  KINGS AND DAEMONS

  TRISTAN’S FOLLY

  THE END OF DREAMS

  Chapter I

  Maya was special, so her father said from the moment she was born. Of recent years it was far less common that a mother survived childbirth. Upon delivering, the bleeding so often wouldn’t stop, and where one life was given, another was too often taken away.

  Being with a child was now more a curse than a blessing, and what should have always been a joyous event for any couple, husband or wife, soon started to become a sentence of death. A husband knew that to gain a son or daughter was to often lose the mother, or if she survived, for her to be a pale shadow of her former self.

  When Maya was born, her mother, like so many others, had started to bleed terribly, more than most, and the midwife solemnly declared there was no hope. So she pushed Maya into her mother’s dying arms to feed from her breast in her last hours and left. Tears fell from both the eyes of Mika, her mother, and Jalan, her father, and they were not of joy but parting sorrow.

  Yet as Maya suckled, her mother’s bleeding slowed, and instead of passing from this life, she held on. Jalan fed Mika a little broth each day thinking it would be her last, but instead she grew stronger, Maya never far from her breast and arms. In fact, her family seemed blessed by her birth, for not only did her mother fully recover, but her father who had been plagued with a terrible cough that all the mineworkers seemed to suffer from, began to cough less and less.

  Instead of revelling openly about this miracle, Mika and Jalan kept quiet, knowing that such things were met with distrust. They also feared the overseer would take an interest in Maya, for if she showed she was special, to have a gift, then she would be taken from them both, as there was a large reward given to those who identified a gifted one.

  So, Jalan started feigning his cough, and Mika rubbed dirt under her eyes to give them a hollow appearance, and when in public shuffled like an old lady, and thus the circumstances surrounding Maya’s birth were kept hidden.

  -----

  Over the years as Maya grew, so did her gift, and out of necessity, so did the deceit which surrounded her.

  A bird with a broken wing would often recover to fly again if she cared for it and the vegetables that grew in the dusty back yard grew healthier than usual near where she played, hidden behind a tall wooden fence.

  Beauty was almost unknown now in this land, and while still only a young child, her obvious health amongst the weaker, paler children would have made her stand out. So, her lustrous black hair she had to cover in dirt and dust, cut short and jagged on purpose. Her fingernails strong and firm, she broke by pushing her fingers constantly into the hard soil. She rubbed dirt on the clear skin of her face and under the eyes and wore threadbare and plain clothing.

  To keep her out of sight even more, her parents sold almost everything of value to bribe the town's cleric to appoint her as a forager and hunter as she turned seven. Girls were not strong enough to work in the mines or the furnaces, and this was the one job, albeit dangerous, that constantly took a girl outside of the settlement. Thus she spent her days absent, from early sunrise to just before sunset, always out of sight, keeping to the shadows, learning the land and how to harvest its frugal bounty.

  At the age of ten, her mother passed away.

  Maya came home from foraging one day to find her father inconsolable. Her mother’s body was already upon a pyre, and her father refused to tell her what had happened. She knew from the look of hatred on his face when he looked at the overseer and the town soldiers that something untoward had transpired. When she had recovered enough from her grief, she approached the neighbours to see if they would tell her, but they closed their doors in her face. They didn’t like her, and people didn’t fare well if they fell afoul of the overseer.

  As the years passed and the death of her mother faded, she grew into a beautiful young woman, with large, dark brown eyes, slender and tall, so unlike any of the other townsfolk. Every morning she would wrap bandages around her breasts, to flatten them against her body, sprinkle dust into her eyes to make them appear red and bloodshot, and wrap one knee to give her an odd stiff-legged hobble before going out.

  ‘Keep to yourself, keep quiet, keep hidden, keep dirty, keep stooped, keep shuffling.’ Always her father would repeat these and similar mantras. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself and keep out of sight,’ and then he would hobble off to the mines for the day.

  The problem was, Maya was lonely. Lonely and bored. Forbidden by her father to mix, she’d never made friends and was now actively shunned by everyone. She’d never been kissed, although she’d watched many of the settlement's men and women pair, and some even marry, and dreamed of it happening to her, though it never would.

  Thus from an early age to help her deal with boredom, she started to do the very thing her parents had never wanted her to do, explore the possibilities of her gift.

  ‘You mustn’t keep practising it,’ her father often scolded, when at the end of a long day, Maya told him of what she’d done as they sat eating dinner in their hut. Yet he couldn’t keep stern for long, for she was the sunshine of his life when all around was darkness. He saw in Maya’s dark looks a reflection of her mother, especially the eyes. So the frown would soon give way to a smile as she tossed her hair or pouted, and all would be forgiven.

  -----

  Today had begun like every other day.

  Having said goodbye to her father, Maya had left the settlement a moment before sunrise, and finished collecting her daily quota of provisions before the sun had fully risen above the horizon. The bushes she visited were always full of berries, and her traps were so artfully laid that she never failed to bring back meat, whereas others, often failed.

  As ever, having finished early, she had climbed quickly to the rim of the valley, to her secret place. The high ridges between which the valley nestled held many smoking craters, but the fires in this one had long ago gone cold.

  When she’d first explored it, sheltered in the depth of the crater had been the thickest nest of brambles, thorns, and twisted, stunted trees, that she’d ever seen. Even in this land of ugliness, it stood out, and the pain it seemed to exude had almost made her cry. A pool of foul-smelling brackish water had completed the unpleasant picture.

  Now, it was anything but.

  Maya lay on her stomach and gazed north over the edge of the crater toward the distant smoke that marked the settleme
nt of Angora, a full day’s fast ride north. Between here and there, all her eyes could see was a blighted land. Swathes of blackened grass and withered trees, growing but barely clinging to life. Even in her own valley things were only slightly better. The crops had failed this year, and even the orchard fruit while sustaining, was bitterly unpleasant. Everything that grew seemed tainted unless touched by her hand.

  Then she rolled to her back, and looked down between her feet into the crater, at her secret place, where she spent every moment she could, for it was now a paradise in this broken land.

  Thick green grass, colourful flowers, and a fresh, clear spring that fed a small pond. There were also healthy strong trees, one of which was starting to bear apples, and the rose bush; the rose bush where this transformation had started many moons ago.

  When she’d first climbed into the crater when she and her gift were still young, amongst the thorns and bracken that made this place so uninviting, a blackened, twisted rose flowered. It had caught her eye, and she’d gone to investigate. The thorns of the bush had been wickedly sharp, the bloom’s scent the soft sweet smell of decay, cloying and overwhelming, yet Maya had imagined that it was the red told of in the old stories, to be given as a gift to the one you loved.

  So every day she came to pour a little tepid water from the brackish pool onto the roots beneath the soil, carefully straightened the twisted leaves and smoothed the warped petals. While doing so, she would softly hum a nameless tune and dream of a handsome suitor bearing a red rose.

  Then after months of tending and nurturing the rose, the bloom had fallen, dead to the ground. Maya had felt disheartened, yet continued to tend the bush. She removed the flies that plagued it, cleaned the dust off that coated it, and then a change had slowly begun to take place.

  The blackened stems had visibly started to turn a shade of green, dark at first, but then as the days passed by, lighter.

  Excited beyond imagining at what was happening, to enable her to spend more time here, she’d pushed herself to finish her foraging earlier every day, and this became easier as the bushes she visited also became healthier.

  Then, beyond her expectations, a rosebud had appeared, followed by others, deep red, a shade that touched her heart. Every day she sat and watched, caressed the plant softly, and willed it to grow. Then, between one day and the next, several of the buds had opened, and the roses that awaited her arrival were more beautiful than she could have imagined, their scent a heady perfume that filled the air.

  Inspired, she’d turned her attention to the water, and thrust her arms in elbow deep, believing that now, if she willed it enough, she could help more than just a rose bush grow. A slight glow had emanated from her hands, and she’d tried all the harder.

  Sure enough, within days, the water began to run clear and free of taint; refreshing to drink.

  But that wasn’t all. After she’d run her hands over the branches of the blighted trees, the bark had stopped peeling, the wounds that dripped sap had disappeared, and they grew firm and healthy. Amongst the blackened grass surrounding the bush, sprouts of bright green had begun to appear, here, there, and everywhere. They pushed their way through the soil to rise above their withered counterparts, and over time became a lush carpet that extended to the rim of the crater.

  Now, Maya could take her boots off and wiggle her toes in the softness.

  She rolled onto her stomach again and turned her attention back to Angora. Was it the same, dark, dull, and boring as her settlement? Occasionally the soldiers on horseback could be heard talking about it, but none of the townsfolk were allowed far from the settlement where they were born, and where they would likely die.

  As Maya lay with her head on her hands, the green grass soft beneath her, her tired body relaxed, the weak sun warmed her body, her heart slowed happily, her mind drifted … asleep.

  -----

  Taran looked at the sky, rubbing his jaw ruefully, aware of a loose tooth. He would easily have known that punch was coming had he not been showing off a little in front of a small crowd of baying townsfolk, who’d taken a wager that he wouldn’t last three rounds against the towering town champion.

  Taran wasn’t exactly small either. Years spent in his father’s smithy during his youth, where he’d worked the bellows, swung the heavy hammers and chopped wood for the furnace, had given him strength beyond most of his peers. Yet he concealed his muscled frame in loose clothing and constantly feigned a slight stoop.

  Every settlement in the kingdom had a justice turf. It was a square area where bouts like these could be held. However, it was also where the local overseer handed out any punishment required by the law, to include executions by the Witch-King’s soldiers for often trivial infractions.

  Now, as he lay in the dust, he thought that perhaps he should have listened to his father’s advice about never giving an opponent a chance.

  For a moment as he gathered his senses, other memories of his father came to mind. Such as when he’d misbehaved or tried to skip his duties, how his father would discipline him with his fists.

  To deal with such punishment, Taran had developed lightning reflexes as he grew, ducking or sliding out of the way with ease. His father had often grown so angry at this, that Taran sometimes let the blows land when he knew they wouldn’t hurt too much, just to calm his father down. It was either that or those fists would find release on his mother instead. Perhaps it was because of this, that from his youth, Taran had practised fighting, and excelled at it.

  Of course, his gift had helped. Peoples thoughts and intentions seemed to be plain for him to see as if written down before him. He could tell someone’s name as easily as where the next punch or kick was coming from before they even threw it.

  It was a secret he’d kept from everyone, including his parents. The revelation of such things would have led to the overseer sending him off to the Witch-King, a dubious honour he’d happily avoided.

  Then one day after Taran returned to the smithy late in the day, after dallying for too long with one of the girls from his settlement, he’d discovered that his father’s fists had found their mark one time too many on his mother, who lay lifeless and bloodied in his sobbing father’s arms.

  The rage that welled up inside had almost overwhelmed him, and he’d nearly killed his father before letting some townsfolk pull him off.

  His father was too valuable as the settlement blacksmith to be executed, so was whipped instead for his crime. Taran however was banished. Branded with a hot iron on his forearm to warn other settlements from taking him on, he was thrown out to a lonely life, and possible death, as a wanderer on the kingdom's roads.

  Taran had hastened north that day with tears in his eyes and anger in his heart, wondering whether joining the army was his best bet, but he’d swiftly discarded the idea. He’d always disliked the soldiers in his settlement and found it hard to accept authority or routine.

  He had nothing but his clothes, a few belongings in a pack and two silver coins to his name. After two day’s travel, he’d made it to the neighbouring settlement just before the second horn blew. In the morning, he was told to leave. With no settlement keen to give a home to a stranger, let alone a branded one, he’d been wandering since. So he took odd jobs here and there but mainly scratched out a living having fun doing what he knew best. Fighting.

  Bringing his mind back to the present, he groaned. If that tooth came out, it would spoil what he thought were roguish good looks, but were in fact only slightly better than average. Irrespective of his visage, he liked to think of himself as a good sport. When he’d knocked down this towering oaf a short while ago, he’d stood back to let the man rise in his own time, and it had taken time, for his punches had been true and square on his opponent’s rather big jaw.

  ‘Pretty good punch,’ he said to his assailant, who was moving in carefully. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll let me get up?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  In reply, Urg, who was aptly named, moved swiftl
y in to deliver a vicious kick to Taran’s ribs to finish the fight, and possibly put him in the healers for a week or two.

  Taran read the move early, and twisted, hooking his foot behind Urg’s ankle to sweep his feet from under him, a move that sent Urg crashing to the floor. Taran rolled to his feet smoothly.

  ‘Let’s call it a draw,’ he suggested, smiling broadly. He knew it wasn’t allowed but wanted to seem dashing in front of the local girls, even if they didn’t look that attractive.

  Urg surged to his feet to swing the biggest punch Taran had ever seen. Even without his gift, Taran would have seen it coming, so he ducked and stepped in to plant two deep punches into Urg’s gut. As Urg doubled over, Taran kindly, or so he thought, stepped around and kicked him in the back of the knees to send Urg face down into the black dust, then followed it up with a sharp punch to the side of the head, finishing the fight for good.

  Taran raised his arms in triumph to the hushed crowd, only to realise they weren’t quite as happy about his victory as he was. Likely they’d bet a lot of their meagre savings on the home champion and now felt the loss keener than did Urg. An angry murmur started.

  He moved to the winner’s table then swept the tarnished coins into his hand before putting them into the pouch at his waist. The mood was hostile, and he considered leaving the settlement immediately, but it was way past noon. It wasn’t always safe outside on the roads after dark, for groups of bandits whilst rare, still roamed, and sleeping under the stars whilst seeming romantic, was cold, unpleasant, and shared only with biting insects instead of a warm woman.

  So, instead, he kept his head down, and quickly pushed his way through the thinnest part of the converging crowd, then half-walked, half-ran to the ugly tavern he’d intended to stay in.

  Taverns didn’t see many visitors and were often frequented by the king’s soldiers. Taran didn’t like the idea of sharing the place with such an unpleasant crew as were currently in town. They were answerable only to the Witch-King and to themselves and perhaps the town overseer. This made them insufferable at best, and downright dangerous at worse, as they could kill with almost impunity. As he pushed in through the tavern door, Taran held his breath, hoping to go straight to his room, bar the door, and remain inconspicuous until dawn when he would make a very swift and early departure.