Kings and Daemons Read online

  Kalas searched the man’s eyes and felt sure he told the truth. He was too frightened for his life not to have done so.

  He pulled the dagger from his leg, followed by the one in his chest. Blood frothed out full of bubbles. The pain was sickening, and he sank to his knees, then pushed the overseer to his back.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t kill me!’ screamed the overseer, as Kalas leaned closer.

  Kalas looked on dispassionately, his eyes beginning to glow a fearsome red again. ‘Once, when I was just a man, I would rather have died than break my word. Now I fear the daemon inside makes a liar of me.’

  Kalas, the daemon, began to feast.

  -----

  Chapter VI

  The Witch-King they called him, and it was a name he relished, for it conjured an image of eldritch power. Only his general Alano called him by his birth name to his face. Daleth. A name given to him in a different time in a different land, before he crossed the seas.

  He’d been born nearly a hundred years ago, in a small village on one of the many Islands of the Sea Kingdom as they were known, far away across what people called the Endless Sea.

  When he’d been born, it had been a cause for celebration for his village. A boy was always a blessing, a strong arm to help till the fields, or maybe to pull the oars as he grew older. If the gods should smile, as a man, he might even one-day bear arms for his fief lord, manning the longships which raided the coastal towns of the land-born to the west.

  Yet the celebrations didn’t last long for into a land of the strong he’d been born, and from his earliest days, he was a sickly child.

  There was not much to remember before he turned nine, too many years had passed, but what early memories he had were of his father cursing the gods for his cursed son, and his sickly mother. Yet despite this, she nursed him constantly, for he was often plagued with cough or fever.

  The whole village barely accepted him, as he did little to contribute, but his father was the village chief, having been an oarsman and reaver on the fief lord’s longship in his younger years and thus commanded respect. So instead of Daleth being cast over a cliff and into the sea to drown, he was tolerated.

  Some of his father’s wealth was in books that detailed the history of the Sea Kingdom, a parting gift from his grateful fief lord when he’d taken up the role of village chief after a land-born spear had left him with a crippled leg that ended his days of reaving. So, instead of working long days digging the hard rocky soil planting crops, or spending days on the village’s fishing boats out on the rough waters, Daleth had spent his hours inside poring over dusty parchment and tomes.

  Years of illness, and reading in the dim light, instead of working the land or sea had left him skinny, pale, stooped of shoulder, and weak of chest. He was, however, learned beyond all his peers, understanding the strategies employed of old, of battles on land and sea, of the patterns of swordplay, the parries and thrusts. Despite this, no one would listen to such a pathetic boy even had he been invited to the tale-telling around the hearth fires at night in the village’s great hall.

  However, he still lived the dream of might and conquest through the parchments he pored over, determined to become a famous warrior, a reaver. His father could barely look him in the eye whenever there was the need to speak to him, but one day, one day, he would be proud.

  On his tenth birthday, he remembered his mother leading him into the sunlight from the shelter of their lodge. For that was the day of his passage from child to man. Daleth had looked around, yet his father was nowhere to be seen. On that day, his father should have been there to strap a dagger to his waist, lay a cloak around his shoulders, and to look into his son's eyes full of pride at what the future might hold, especially if he found favour in the eyes of the gods. Yet his father hadn’t even given him this, and Daleth had felt the cold of rejection like a knife to his heart.

  His mother had knelt, took him in her arms, eyes moist with tears, for now he had to make the journey to the lord’s manor to offer his services as an oarsman. It was she who gave him his dagger and cloak, and he’d felt ashamed in front of the villagers who stood and watched. Her kiss was warm on his cheek, and his own eyes were shiny with tears that he’d barely held back.

  Yet Daleth had known that when he arrived, he would surely be turned away, for if his father saw no use in him, neither would the lord, and he would be sent home to till the fields, a farmer. Yet even this would be too much for his feeble body, and he would forever be a burden upon his village until such day the gods decided to take his cursed life away.

  Another boy had also set out to make the journey, his cousin Gilbar. Gilbar was a typical island-born, strong even at such an early age, eyes as hard as his young body. It was obvious from the look in his eyes he hadn’t wanted to make the journey with Daleth, yet he couldn’t refuse the village chief who had made him swear an oath that he would at least accompany Daleth to the fief lord’s hall.

  So that morning he’d set out with a small pack of provisions on his back, his fragile heart beating fast as he tried to keep up with his cousin who had slowed just enough so he could at least walk in his shadow.

  As the village slowly receded then vanished behind them, Gilbar had turned to him with a look of abject despise on his face. ‘I should do you the favour right now of slitting your throat and leaving you to the gulls!’ he’d said, pulling his dagger for emphasis. ‘But I have a feeling there will be no need to sully my blade for I doubt you’ll even last the week’s journey. I suggest you turn back now being the pathetic creature you are or better yet cast yourself from the cliffs into the sea, so your parents and our village never have to shoulder the disgrace of keeping you alive any longer.’

  With that, Gilbar had sheathed his blade and strode off at a pace, leaving Daleth blinking back tears.

  Daleth had stood there for a moment, and tears had flowed, burning hot rivers of shame down his face. He’d so wanted to be stronger and had desired above all else to be someone his father could be proud of, or the villagers looked up to. His success should have been assured with his father being the village chief. Yet, Gilbar was likely right, he would die on the journey, and even if by a stroke of luck he didn’t, what kind of life would he have, hated and despised by all.

  He’d looked to the cliffs and the crashing waves below. A few steps, a moment of freedom, and then the sea could take him. He’d taken a faltering step toward them. Yes, better to give himself to the gods and end this torment. Yet as he’d neared the edge, the gulls screaming their encouragement at his decision, he’d heard above their calls a different cry, and this had stopped him a mere step from a watery grave.

  He’d cocked his head to one side, and sure enough, the cries had been real, his name was being called.

  His legs had trembled as he’d backed away from the edge. Death had been so close, and the realism hit him like a blow, yet he steeled his small heart and pushed himself back to the path and followed the sound of cries, followed the sound of his name.

  The paths around the islands mostly followed the coastal routes and were often steep and dangerous. Throughout any given year deaths from falling were not too uncommon. As Daleth drew closer, he’d recognised his cousin's voice, and the pain it held. What must it have cost him to call for help?

  As he’d rounded a rocky outcrop, there lay Gilbar. His eyes were red from crying, and one of his legs was pinned beneath a large rock that had fallen somehow during his passing.

  ‘Help me, Daleth!’ his cousin had screamed as Daleth stepped unsteadily forward, yet as he did, he’d found himself slowing, for inside, something strange was happening.

  His cousin’s screams sounded like music in his ears, and he’d sat down a few steps short, letting the sound wash over him.

  ‘What in the hells is wrong with you?’ Gilbar had cried. ‘Either help me or get some help but don’t just sit there!’

  But sit there he did, and far from feeling wrong, things had never felt more right
. With every piteous scream, he’d felt himself grow slightly stronger. His heart, instead of fluttering like a small bird, now beat with the power of a storm and he revelled in the feeling.

  ‘Please, see if you can help shift the rock?’ Gilbar had begged.

  Daleth had slowly risen to his feet, his legs steady, his cousin’s misery feeding him, nourishing him and he walked with purpose to where his cousin lay. The rock that had pinned him was big, likely weighing more than a full-grown man.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Daleth had said, seeing that Gilbar’s leg was trapped but not crushed, and noted that his voice sounded different, deeper, more resonant.

  ‘Lucky!’ Gilbar had screamed. ‘Why are you smiling you runt, get some help!’ and he’d started sobbing again. Daleth couldn’t help but smile; the feeling had been too exquisite.

  So Daleth had knelt, wrapped his arms around the boulder, and before his cousin’s wide eyes, stood, lifting it with him and placed it back on the ledge above the path from where it had fallen.

  Gilbar had stopped sobbing, his wide eyes full of both disbelief and relief, the absence of panic and pain making his face break into a smile, and he’d started laughing, his misery disappearing like a puddle on a hot day.

  And as this had happened, so Daleth’s feeling of wellbeing also started to disappear. He’d still felt strong, but not as much as before, nor as at peace.

  So as his cousin still lay on the ground, he’d turned and lifted the rock from its resting place and dropped it back on to his cousin’s legs where he lay. This time however, instead of one leg being trapped, the rock crushed both of them, shattered the shins, and blood spurted.

  If Gilbar’s screams had nourished him before, then it was as if his veins flowed with the very essence of life.

  His cousin had taken two days to die, whether it was from blood loss or his heart giving out to the relentless pain it didn’t matter. He’d felt as if he were eating a banquet, but when the screams finally stopped, he’d started to feel faint hunger pangs grow.

  The shepherd he’d come across the next day, he’d killed with his dagger but had felt no surge of life or strength, so from that point on, he’d started experimenting.

  As he grew stronger over the years, he’d tortured men, women and animals as well, and with their suffering, he’d grown, but with their death, the nourishment ceased. It was their misery, their torment, their pain, whether emotional or physical that fed him, and feed he did with relish.

  The fief lord’s men starting hunting for this evil one in their midst who preyed on the people of the land, yet by the time they’d found him, he was too strong, and it was they not him who’d succumbed that day.

  Soon he was the Fief Lord himself, and his rule upon the islands was more oppressive than any that had gone before. The people suffered under his rule, and he grew stronger. No one who spoke out against him lived.

  The island’s few mages, for theirs was a people of might over magic, to save their position of influence and ingratiate themselves, created what they called soul stones from a rock that had fallen from the skies, to bestow upon the soldiers of his army. These stones deadened the soul, enhancing base emotions such as hatred and cruelty while suppressing others such as kindness or remorse, making whosoever wore them ruthless and cold.

  Daleth had been ecstatic with the transformational effect the stones had on his soldiers but had the mages killed anyway, not wanting others with powers that might threaten his own.

  He’d continued to surround himself with men of war, and his army grew in strength and depravity. He went with the army across the sea to the west and dominated the land-born, conquered their kingdoms and enslaved their people. He’d felt like a god.

  Forty years had passed under his iron rule, and his empire came to lay at death's door. His power had grown to such an extent that he drew life from the very land itself and he kept this a secret even from those closest in case they turned upon him. This terrible famine was blamed on the capricious gods who were jealous of his greatness.

  Sleep always found him dreaming of finding new lands, new life. Then one night, his spirit seemed to separate from his body, and he’d soared high above his castle, able to fly like a bird. Over the following months, he’d explored this new ability, and travelled across his lands, recognising the slow death of not only his people but also himself if he stayed, and his thoughts in his darkest hour turned back to his childhood.

  He remembered reading of a land of legend, far to the east beyond the endless sea that a reaver captain had claimed to have seen when driven there by a storm. Of course, the captain and his men were never taken seriously, yet the account had still been written down, and the words shone in Daleth’s mind as a beacon of hope.

  He’d sold that hope, that legend to his people, his army, and drove them to make a fleet like never before seen.

  Two years later he’d left behind his people, taken only his army and sailed east. Two hundred thousand men, half of them never to see land again.

  Those who survived had landed on distant shores to find the Ember Kingdom a swollen fruit, ripe for the picking. Despite the unexpected final battle, he’d conquered the lands, and had been feasting ever since … until now.

  Now, he gained almost no sustenance at all, because these lands had near nothing left to give. His hunger increased daily, even as his strength and youth diminished.

  So, after decades of preparation and patience, he was ready to invade the Freestates to the east. To expand, to conquer, to grow strong once again.

  Over recent years, he’d considered invading through the lands of the Eyre to bypass Tristan’s Folly entirely. Yet the pathways were treacherous with deep swamps either side that could swallow up whole units, and that was before you added thousands of angry Eyre archers into the mix who would be in their element. Despite its allure, he’d regretfully discarded the idea.

  They’d be dealt with in good time. He’d attack them from the east once he’d conquered the Freestates.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a whisper in his mind, a spirit voice.

  He sighed and closed his eyes. The image of an overseer filled his mind, and the man’s face and thoughts were full of fear, but he recognised straight away it wasn’t the fear of talking to his king; instead it was something else. ‘Speak,’ commanded Daleth.

  ‘My king,’ said the man. ‘They’re dead, he killed them all, he is coming for you lord, Kalas is coming!’

  ‘Who …’ Daleth started to ask, but the man’s image faded. He tried to reach the overseer but couldn’t detect his presence.

  What should he do? The logistics of launching an invasion would have to come before investigating this strange message, but it certainly deserved looking into.

  This was likely nothing more than a raid by some emboldened group of bandits. Of late, several settlements had been destroyed by his soldiers in response to local uprisings and lawlessness, as some peasants on the verge of starvation found strength in desperation.

  He’d look into it shortly, but whether they died at the swords of his men, or to starvation, the perpetrators would find death visiting them soon.

  The day’s planning now demanded his attention, and as he entered the throne room, the dreams of conquest pushed everything else to one side. What matter the death of a few dozen, when he had a hundred thousand ready to unleash, and it was almost time.

  -----

  Maya’s spirits were now faltering.

  Two days ago she’d awoken in her cage, surrounded by flowers and gifts on a soft bed of grass wondering what to do, when suddenly the wild hope of escaping her confinement, the townspeople mounting a rescue, or even the guards turning against the overseer, vanished. For that morning, soldiers had arrived, and thrown her into the back of a wagon for a journey to the capital.

  Eleven soldiers just for her. She’d noted that five of them, the ones dressed in darkest black kept themselves away from the others who wore dark grey, looked at them with utter
disdain, a look they seemed to bestow upon everything they gazed upon. They’d moved with an arrogance that repelled her, showed next to no emotion, and their eyes were all black like bottomless pits. Just having one of them look at her made her insides turn cold.

  Not that the other six were much better.

  She’d picked up the name of one, the captain, Rakan. He always seemed to be looking everywhere at once, his face crossed with the scars of his rank, and his skin, wherever it was bare, showed sins of skin rot. He seemed to resent the other five soldiers who ordered him and his men around without any kind of respect.

  The other five soldiers were younger, all cruel-looking, and one had new wounds on his face, indicating a promotion in rank to corporal it seemed. She’d wondered what foul deeds he’d done to deserve that.

  The first night they’d stopped the men had made two fires. The men in black camped around one, the others in dark grey slightly further apart around the other, slightly closer to the wagon where she was confined. They’d sat down around the fire, their cruel laughter wafting across as they drank and ate their evening meal.

  The young corporal had asked the captain if he should bring her food and water, but the question was met with an emphatic shake of the head. The captain’s explanation that; the less she consumed, the weaker she would become, and the less trouble they would have with her, seemed to be enough for the corporal, who just sat down to eat his food.

  Maya had no idea how long it would take to get to the capital, to the Witch-King, but it would be several weeks, maybe her last ones alive. So despite her spirits often turning toward despair, she’d taken that first night to look to the stars, to the moon, to appreciate their splendour and to try and lift her spirits while she could still do so.

  Now, as Maya rode in the back of the wagon under the weak midday sun, she considered that while two days ago, her situation had been bad, things were now even worse. The iron cage that now confined her might have been tall enough to stand in, but she quickly found out that it was nearly impossible to do so as they bounced over every rock on the way to the capital with a bone-shaking crunch that left her body complaining in pain.