Kings and Daemons Read online

He was skilled with weapons beyond anyone, yet the Witch-King had been building his army again for decades. Once again they numbered a hundred thousand by all accounts, ready for the invasion of the Freestates.

  Yet what choice did he have? He’d made the vow those fifty years ago and now wanted to take it up again, to kill the Witch-King or die in the attempt. He had to die whatever the outcome, ridding the world of two monsters. And Antoc, poor old Antoc was probably delivering his message inside the very gates at this moment as he sat watching. If he didn’t fulfil his vow to kill himself this time, and the newly awakened daemon ever took full control … how many would die at his hand, hundreds even thousands perhaps? Would he grow in strength, conquer the kingdom, march on to enslave the Freestates, become godlike with the world at his feet, all-powerful ...

  ‘Quiet!’ he commanded the daemon in his head and pushed it to one side. It infected his thoughts, promising glory, preying on subconscious desire, trying to lure him into relinquishing control, consciously or otherwise.

  The daemon screamed in frustration thirsting for blood. It urged Kalas to draw his sword, to kill everyone who was in the fort, to hack and cut, carve and dismember. ‘Hush,’ he told it ‘soon you will have what you want.’ He needed to be able to decide on a course of action, and the daemon stilled and quietened, a little like a child being promised something sweet.

  He thought about joining the Witch-King’s army. To rise through the ranks, and get close by joining Daleth’s personal guard, but that might take years, and the daemon’s thirst for blood would betray Kalas far too soon. Nor was he a skilled assassin, able to travel the length of the kingdom to climb invisible into the fortress at Kingshold to slay the Witch-King in his sleep. He might be a master of weapons but knew going unseen for so long would never happen. He would die surrounded by a hundred corpses perhaps, but it was unlikely he’d get close.

  A final option came to mind. To face and defeat the Witch-King, he could position himself alongside those who needed his help the most, the Freestates. That way, in due course, the Witch-King would come to him, riding with the invading army. Then maybe, just maybe on the field of battle, he could get close enough to kill Daleth or fulfil his vow to perish while trying.

  The Freestates must know an invasion was imminent and would surely recruit every mercenary unit and able-bodied man east of the border. Somehow he had to cross either by force or stealth and enlist.

  His mind made up, he rose smoothly to his feet, unconsciously brushing the mulch from his ragged clothing. He looked down at himself and snorted at his pointless action. He hardly looked a figure to be feared. Threadbare peasant rags, torn and filthy, open-toed boots. The mulch was probably an excellent addition to his attire.

  He should have looted the armour from the dead soldiers back at the farm. He was far from invulnerable, as a blade, spear, or arrow to the heart, even a severe blow to the head would finish him, despite his daemon kin. But the daemon had been so distracting when it first awakened, that he’d barely had enough clarity to carry the sword he’d taken from Antoc in the opening moments of the fight. He could hardly walk up to the gates with it bare in his hand, so he took some of the twining that held up his trousers, and fashioned a lanyard which he crossed over his shoulders, so the sword hung down his back under his shirt. The pommel banged annoyingly against the back of his head when he took a step, but he just shrugged because it wouldn’t stay there for long.

  As he stepped out from the cover of the dying tree, the daemon started to bay for blood. The sun must be setting, he thought, as it cast its red light across the land. But then he realised he was looking through eyes that were glowing instead.

  ‘Not yet,’ he admonished. ‘Be patient my brother, soon, soon,’ and he soothed it again. ‘You will know when it is time, and then you can drink your fill. But for now, lend me your strength.’

  He walked toward the open gates of the garrison, head down, a peasant coming to beg for scraps, and he laughed to himself.

  He was definitely coming for something to eat.

  -----

  Taran sat uncomfortably astride a horse as they rode through the gates of Pilla, the local garrison town. It was huge compared to the settlements he’d visited, with everyone in uniform moving around with a sense of urgency and purpose.

  There was a steady flow of wagons arriving. They were filled with supplies and came from the settlements in the region to keep the army well fed and stocked. Indeed, as Taran looked around, he realised that if the land suffered and people starved, it was also because so much of the harvest was sent here to keep the soldiers fit and strong.

  Rakan, who rode next to him at the front of their troop, saw his face and laughed. Some of the other men followed suit. ‘Close your mouth lad, before you swallow a fly, and try not to look like such a country peasant. You might wear the uniform, but if you look like a boy who just saw a girl’s bare bottom for the first time, you’ll attract the wrong type of attention.’

  Taran nodded, closed his mouth and looked bored instead as if he’d been here many times before.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Rakan, ‘now pay attention.’ He started pointing out various soldiers who had different markings on their uniforms and armour. Taran could soon distinguish between standard infantry, healers, engineers, cavalry and more.

  ‘Who are those with the black?’ asked Taran.

  Rakan’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Those lad, are the Nightstalkers, elite shock troops, and when I finish being a bloody recruiter, I’ll hopefully be donning my black once again.’

  Taran looked down at his uniform, and at the others the troop were wearing. ‘We’re infantry,’ he stated, then looked at his horse. ‘I think I prefer being in the cavalry, even if I can barely ride, it sure beats walking.’

  Rakan laughed. ‘It sure does, but once the war starts, we’ll be walking everywhere so don’t get used to it. Now, it’s time for you to join the other conscripts and take the amulet, then you’ll truly be one of us.’

  Taran felt his stomach flip. In the back of his mind, he’d hoped at some point he would find a way to wiggle out of this unwanted destiny, but here he was, and there was no escape. ‘Right, let’s go,’ he said.

  Rakan led the troops to the stables, and as they dismounted handlers came out to lead the horses away. ‘Right lads,’ he said, gesturing at Taran. ‘Let’s go see this one signed up, then find out what our orders are, and where we’re headed next. Hopefully, it won’t be for a few days, and we can get some rest.’

  The men cheered.

  ‘Did I say rest, I meant training!’ Curses and dark mutters met this announcement, and Rakan smiled. ‘They might hate me for it now,’ he said quietly to Taran, ‘but they’ll stay alive longer when the fighting starts, and maybe they’ll thank me then.’

  With that, they walked across the town. It was full of shouting, bustling men, everyone crossing paths, everyone cursing. Taran was utterly lost, but Rakan navigated the streets with ease, stepping nimbly from sidewalk to road, over muddy puddles at a fast pace with everyone straggling behind trying to keep up.

  Finally, they turned a corner. ‘Here it is,’ stated Rakan, as he came to a halt, and the men groaned. There was a long queue of men stretching halfway down the street waiting to take the oath at the enrolment office. ‘Dammit,’ muttered Rakan, and the men cursed as well for it would be hours before Taran was seen.

  Taran’s hopes rose a little. ‘Do we have to do this?’ he asked. Rakan turned and frowned at him. ‘I only meant,’ Taran added, ‘that we could do this tomorrow instead?’

  Rakan shook his head. ‘No, it’s now.’

  ‘Meet us at the Angry Pig tavern,’ Rakan told the other men, then gestured for Taran to follow and strode across the road. Not toward the back of the queue, but instead toward the front.

  ‘I don’t mind waiting,’ Taran muttered, as men who’d been waiting for hours started to complain, as did the soldiers who escorted them.

  ‘Hush, do
n’t worry,’ said Rakan, tapping his Captain’s scars. ‘They might not like it, but it seems I outrank everyone here, so they can shout all they like.’

  With that, they pushed to the door, angry shouts loud in their ears. ‘See,’ said Rakan, ‘that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ But as the words left his lips, quiet descended on the mob. They both turned to see an enormous man bending down to fit through the doorway before straightening up before them both. He had Captain’s scars across both his cheeks too, and he looked at Rakan and Taran with contempt.

  ‘Damn,’ breathed Rakan with a strange smile under his breath. The man lifted a muscled arm and pointed the largest finger Taran had seen to the back of the line.

  ‘Go,’ he rumbled, so deeply that it sounded as if his voice came from below ground.

  ‘Come on, Snark,’ said Rakan. ‘We’ve been on the road for days. Let’s get this lad signed up, and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Go,’ repeated Snark, and poked his finger hard into Rakan’s chest, pushing him backwards.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Taran. ‘We’ll go to the back.’ The nearest men laughed mockingly, and Rakan turned with fury on his face.

  ‘No,’ said Rakan. ‘We are next!’ and his fingers closed around the hilt of his sword and Taran took a step away.

  A wide grin spread across the huge face. ‘Rakan,’ Snark growled, ‘as we both very well know, if you draw that blade, you’ll have your head swiftly separated from your shoulders as is the law. No blades to be drawn in town, but if you want to draw, go ahead. At least you’ll probably look better with maggots coming from your dead eye sockets. Now go!’ This time he shoved Rakan hard, making him take two steps backwards.

  The long line of men was silent now, waiting for what would happen next. Taran feared Rakan would try to kill this man, yet his face was strangely calm, and he smiled as if in satisfaction, opening his arms wide.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘no blades, but that’s because you wouldn’t last a few heartbeats, so you hide behind the law. But how about fists? I reckon these years have made you soft sitting behind a desk.’

  Taran couldn’t believe his ears! This giant might well be bested with weapons in a duel, but in a hand to hand fight, he had everything on Rakan, his reach, his strength, his size. He wondered if Rakan’s heaviest blow would even make him blink.

  ‘Rakan, Rakan, Rakan,’ Snark laughed, ‘you haven’t forgotten how I helped that face of yours get so ugly now have you? You haven’t grown stronger in these last years, in fact, you’ve just got older. I beat you easily before, and this time won’t be any different other than I’ll make sure you’re dead.’

  ‘You fought this beast before?’ asked Taran under his breath. ‘By all the gods, how long did you last?’

  Rakan turned and grimaced. ‘About as long as it took him to catch me, to be honest. He thought he’d killed me, so he left me in the dirt, the bastard. I spent twenty days in the healers, broken ribs, arm, nose as well as other things I’d rather not remember.’

  Taran shook his head in disbelief as Rakan turned back to Snark.

  ‘Ah, so it’s real blood you want,’ said Rakan. ‘But I do think you’ve gone soft. I tell you what, you beat my new recruit here, and if you do, I’ll fight you to the end. I’ll see you at the justice turf at noon tomorrow if you have the stones for it!’ and he said this loud enough so that everyone close enough heard. ‘But only if you stop wasting my time and sign this lad up first!’

  ‘What! Are you serious?’ exclaimed Taran, as Rakan dragged him into the recruiting office behind Snark, who was laughing out loud.

  ‘Oh, Rakan,’ Snark said. ‘Tomorrow will be the best day of my life, one I’ll never forget.’

  He opened a dark leather-bound tome and thrust a quill into Taran’s hand. ‘Put your name here,’ he said gruffly. As Taran signed, Snark reached into a heavy metal chest and pulled out a dark amulet which Taran had seen on all the other men and dropped it over Taran’s head. The heavy metal felt strangely cold against his skin as he tucked it under his shirt, and he shivered.

  ‘I’d tell you about how to collect your pay, your weapons, and so on, but there isn’t much point,’ said Snark, then ushered them out of the door.

  ‘Why isn’t there much point?’ asked Taran, as he and Rakan exited the building.

  ‘Let’s meet the men,’ said Rakan ignoring the question.

  Taran persisted. ‘Why not?’

  Rakan stopped and turned to face Taran. ‘There’s no point,’ he said quietly ‘because if you lose, which is what Snark believes will happen, he will kill you, then he will look to kill me after. However, if it comes to that, I’ll gut him with my blade and face the executioner's axe knowing I sent him to the nine hells before me.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Taran. ‘Why? We could have just gone to the back. Now we’ll die because of what, a lost fight how many years ago?’

  Rakan’s pushed his face close into Taran’s. ‘A lost fight? It’s not just the lost fight or the broken bones. It’s the fact that I was thrown out of my regiment after he beat me so badly, a regiment I loved, the Nightstalkers. Ever since I’ve been recruiting boys like you, turning them into soldiers and seeing his smirking face each time I bring them in to take the amulet. Worst of all he’s made a point of staying in town ever since I promised to gut him, so I haven’t been able to get my revenge until now.’

  ‘Why by all the gods do you think I can beat him?’ asked Taran. ‘Sure I’ve fought with my hands for a living, but he’s bigger than even Urg by at least a head. He’s an absolute monster!’

  Rakan took Taran by the shoulders. ‘You can do it. I’ve been watching you closely. I’ve seen you train, seen you fight. You have a gift for it.’

  Taran snorted. ‘Sure, I have some talent because I’ve fought all my life, and I am way better with my hands than with weapons, but ...’

  ‘No,’ said Rakan interrupting him. ‘It’s not just talent or those big shoulders of yours. You have a gift, a proper gift, a gift which had it been discovered, would have seen you taken away while you were young to the Witch-King’s castle.’

  ‘I couldn’t understand for a while how you knew me so well at the beginning, or how you fought with a sword for the first time and beat men who’d been training for months, but then, the more I studied you, the more I saw you were different. You have a gift.’

  Taran’s heart almost stopped, and his legs felt like they would give way; Rakan knew!

  Rakan watched Taran’s face turn white. ‘Now lad, don’t worry, I won’t turn you in, or I would have done so by now and got a fair bounty for you, maybe even got back into my old unit, but that wouldn’t have helped me get revenge would it? So in return for that favour, you now need to do one for me.’

  Taran, not seeing any other option, sighed in resignation. ‘It seems I have no choice. I’ll beat Snark for you if I can.’

  ‘No,’ said Rakan, leading him toward the tavern. ‘You won’t just beat him for me, that’s not nearly enough. You will utterly destroy him!’

  -----

  Maya sat crossed-legged on the dirt floor of a wooden cage.

  It offered scant shelter, and she wondered if she would first die of a broken heart over the death of her father, from exposure if it rained heavily, or from being eaten alive by the countless insects that had decided she was their evening meal.

  She’d managed to hold back her tears since the first day, and now it was the fourth. Why she was still here had been answered by two guards as they walked by. They’d been talking about how soldiers from out of town were being sent to take her on the long journey to the capital.

  What fate awaited her at the Witch-King’s castle? She had no idea. But from rumours and her dream, she had a feeling that it would be better to die before reaching her final destination. Would she have the strength to take her own life? She doubted it, at least not yet. Maybe as her despair deepened it would be easier to take that way out.

  She’d tried
each time she fell asleep to recapture the freeing of her spirit, to fly or to reach out to Astren, yet she couldn’t. Maybe it was her grief or the shackles that bound her ankles or perhaps it was because that had all been a dream and it was a figment of her imagination.

  However, what should have been an unbearable tenure took the strangest turn on the second day. A small group of women and children had gathered near the cage, whispering, quiet obviously in disagreement, and Maya had wondered how long it would take them to pick up either the chunks of mud or the stones strewn on the ground to throw at her.

  The cage bars offered little protection, and Maya hed been close to sobbing in anticipation when one of the children ran to the cage bars. The boy looked around to make sure no one was paying attention, then quickly pushed a small leaf bound package through and then ran back to the group.

  Maya had lifted her eyes to see them all looking at her, nodding and smiling. She’d then reached out to take the package and peeled back the leaves to find a small piece of cooked meat inside and some edible roots and had looked up in astonishment to see the group watching her expectantly.

  Her stomach had growled. Had the food been poisoned? She hadn’t been fed for two days and thought that if she died from eating it, then it would solve all her problems about how to kill herself, or if not, her stomach would feel a lot better. So without further hesitation, she’d tucked into the food.

  As she’d eaten, Maya had looked up to see the whole group subtly bow their heads in her direction before moving away. She’d sat there chewing, pondering. For the first time, at this darkest of moments, people who’d shunned her their whole lives had shown her kindness.

  She’d felt her gift like a voice in the back of her mind demanding to be heard, and for whatever reason couldn’t hold back the tears, and they’d flowed down her cheeks and fallen to the ground. Maya had let herself grieve then, memories of her father and the love he’d bestowed somehow taking away some of the pain.

  As the tears flowed, so had her gift. The packed soil floor of the cage burst into colour, as grasses and flowers thrust through to create a lush carpet beneath her. She’d leaned against the old wooden bars and focussed. The bars had sprouted leaves, vines erupted at their bases and twisted upward to create a fragrant roof of blooms above her head.