Kings and Daemons Page 9
As more moments passed, her tears had slowed and stopped, as wonder at what she’d done pushed aside other emotions.
Maya had looked up to see dozens of people staring, while more ran in her direction. Soon a crowd had gathered, and everyone looked on in wonder. The guards had reappeared with the overseer, and his face had grown so red that she’d thought his head would burst.
He’d approached the bars and knelt, a look of malice on his face. ‘You have a choice,’ he’d hissed like a snake. ‘If you decide to carry on with your tainted ways, you’ll still get sent to the Witch-King, but I’ll make sure it’s less your fingers and your tongue as well. Your choice!’
With that, he’d stood, and barked an order at the guards to start dispersing the crowd. But as they’d left, almost all of them had bowed subtly in her direction.
Now, two days later, as she sat waiting for whoever was being sent to escort her, gifts kept arriving - a little food here, a small carved figurine there, a blanket to keep her warm. Even the guards looked at her differently, slightly less hostile perhaps, maybe even with a hint of awe, and they turned a blind eye to the children who turned up whenever they could with their little offerings.
As darkness started to fall, Maya wrapped herself in the blanket and lay on the soft grass. Maybe death wasn’t inevitable. So she tried to stay awake to think of different ways to escape, but tiredness overtook her, and she fell asleep.
-----
Chapter V
Taran was furious.
Rakan had used him, manipulated him into a situation where he had to either kill a man whom he had nothing against or be killed. And for what? Because Rakan had lost a fight years ago and then been thrown out of his unit and wanted to take revenge.
All through his life, he’d always had choices and made them as he saw fit. Even after his mother’s death, when his fury knew no limits, he’d stopped himself from killing his father, despite wanting to. The countless times he’d stepped onto a justice turf to fight for money had again been his decision, and he’d always, always fought in such a fashion, that even if he had an unfair advantage with his gift, he’d never set out to really hurt anyone.
Now, over the last week or so, everything had turned upside down. It had started with Urg dying, then being forced into joining the army, and now he was in a situation whereby he had to kill someone or die trying.
His life which was hardly gifted by the gods, was now certainly cursed. Taran wanted to scream in frustration at the injustice of his situation, and yet he was the only one who seemed to feel this way.
Rakan had led him in a daze to the Angry Pig tavern where the rest of the squad were in the process of getting rowdily drunk. On arrival, Rakan had immediately told everyone in great detail of how his devious plan for revenge had come to fruition, whilst of course omitting to mention Taran’s gift.
The men, after a moments pause as they considered the prospect of a fight to the death between Taran and Snark, began to laugh at the situation and placed bets amongst themselves as to how long Taran would last and how exactly Snark would kill him.
Now the tavern had filled with other men who’d heard the story of the impending fight. It had torn through the garrison town like wildfire, and they hardly took a glance at Taran before they also burst into laughter, often shouting some cruel insult about his impending doom.
Taran turned to Rakan. ‘Why aren’t you saying something? It’s not just me they’re laughing at, it’s you as well, even if they aren’t mentioning it.’
Rakan tapped his nose, a crafty look on his face. ‘The more confident people get about you and me losing, the easier they’ll be parted from their money.’
Taran realised Rakan was going to use this as an opportunity to bet on the fight as well.
‘I need to sleep,’ Taran said, and turning toward the tavern keeper, paid the man for a room rather than go back with the squad to the barracks.
Rakan leaned in close before he headed upstairs. ‘I will come and get you just before noon tomorrow. If you’re thinking of running, the tavern keeper here, and his boys, will keep an eye on your room and the windows, just in case. So don’t even consider attempting to escape. Now, you better get your rest, because tomorrow is your big day, or maybe I should say our big day, and Snark’s last!’ He laughed at this, and Taran wondered how he’d ever started to think Rakan was not as bad as he looked.
As Taran climbed tiredly up the stairs to his room, leaving behind the hoots of laughter and jibes, he pushed any thoughts of running from his mind and considered his options. He had to fight and win, of course, but even with his gift, that was unlikely. Snark was enormous. His height, his long arms, his sheer strength would be overwhelming. How could he beat someone that big?
If he went on the attack, he would need to be within the giant’s reach for far too long to be safe, and should even just one or two of Snark’s heavy blows land in a toe-to-toe exchange; it would probably end the fight immediately.
The other choice was to be defensive. Let Snark attack. Counterpunch and move away to keep his distance while Snark hopefully tired. He might win eventually, but more likely once Snark recognised the tactic, he would invite Taran to strike first, and if Taran didn’t, he would be judged a coward, and cowards were executed in the army.
Taran shook his head. He was thinking about this all wrong, because this wasn’t a fight whereby he had to beat Snark, it was a fight where he had to kill him. The only rule was no weapons. There was no need to fight fair or play to the crowd. To win, he had to fight dirty and destroy Snark before the giant realised there was something different about him.
As Taran focussed on the ways he might kill Snark, he began to feel better. A warmth filled his chest until he became almost giddy with excitement, and a feeling of euphoria settled over him.
Taran lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling, his mind was made up, and he fell into a deep contented sleep straight away.
He dreamed of blood and death - such sweet, sweet, dreams.
-----
Taran awoke to a banging on the door. He laughed as he leapt from atop the bed, still in his clothes from the night before, feeling like he’d never slept so well. His dreams, full of killing and bloodshed, he would once have considered nightmares, had shown him his destiny in all its blood-drenched glory.
He opened the door and pushed past the tavern keeper who instead of seeing a man walking to his death, saw Taran breeze past with a determined smile on his face. As he descended the stairs into the common room, he saw some faces turn away from him, no longer interested in meeting the eye of a dead man walking.
Taran called over a barkeep, ordered a hearty breakfast of ham, bread and milk, and tucked in with a hunger he hadn’t felt for food in a long time.
Shortly after, Rakan walked in with the squad in tow, and he raised his hand in greeting to Taran.
Taran felt his calmness slip a little. Rakan had betrayed him, manipulated him. He would find the right time, but when that time came, Rakan would die beneath his fists or a blade.
Taran felt better again at the thought and greeted them. The men looked a little sombre except for Lexis who seemed to find it hard to keep his grin in check. Taran smiled back, looking at the swollen nose and blackened eyes that he’d given him a few days before, and felt even better.
‘It’s time,’ said Rakan.
Taran rose to his feet, feeling like a king. For a moment, he wondered why, but pushed the thought aside and stepped out of the tavern into the street. He stopped in astonishment. Throngs of soldiers packed the sidewalks, cheering and jostling to get a view of him and Rakan as they strode through the town toward the justice turf. As they walked, men closed in behind and pushed them forward like a wave.
Rakan leaned in close. ‘Listen up. There are no rules to this other than no weapons. You’ll enter the turf while I stand outside, and you beat that bastard, because if ...’
Taran held up his hand, stopping Rakan mid-sentence.
and Rakan spluttered to a halt. ‘I know,’ said Taran, and walked on quickly, leaving Rakan to catch up, his face red with anger.
As they approached the turf, Taran saw Snark already there, bare-chested to show he had no concealed weapons. His chest was massive, his arms like tree trunks, rippling muscle, not an ounce of fat and certainly not soft from sitting behind a desk.
People cheered him on from the sides, but none dared step foot inside the turf as it was a hallowed place set aside for punishments, fights and executions, and this Taran thought, would be all three.
The crowd which had roared so loudly as he approached, quietened down. Taran felt their eyes on him, assessing, then dismissing him, and he ignored them all, walking confidently. As he did, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it at Rakan to annoy him, then stepped onto the turf at the far side of the square to Snark.
As he entered, he reached out with his gift and looked into his opponent’s face. Snark was going to taunt before the fight just as Taran had expected because he wanted to make a spectacle. He would enjoy his moment with Taran and then finish Rakan off, making a bloody mess of them both. Taran could see Snark didn’t consider him a threat, a new recruit, untried and unworthy.
He slowed his walk toward Snark then, became hesitant, a look of worry on his face.
Snark laughed, opening his arms, flexing his muscles, turning around to his audience, showing them his strength and then fixed his eyes on Rakan. ‘You’re next little pig!’ he said, pointing his finger at Rakan and the crowd roared. They couldn’t wait.
Snark turned back to find Taran right in front of him, and barely had time to register Taran’s right hand as it flashed forward, fingers rigid before they crashed into his throat. Snark tried to breathe but couldn’t, and his hands went to his neck as he staggered back, gasping for the air that he struggled to suck down his crushed windpipe.
Taran followed up and moved in quickly, this time landing swift blows, not so heavy, but with thumbs slightly extended to smash into Snark’s eyes one after the other, causing them to rupture in a bloody mess.
Snark managed to scream into the shocked silence that had fallen upon the crowd and stumbled, crashing to his knees. Even so, his head was almost level with Taran’s which was perfect, for now Taran unleashed a torrent of heavy punches like he’d never thrown before.
Snark fell as if poleaxed onto his back, and for a heartbeat, Taran thought to stop, but he was enjoying this too much. He stepped around Snark’s writhing body, raised his booted foot and brought it crashing down on Snark’s head, again and again, feeling the skull shatter, but still not stopping, not until there was almost nothing left to stamp on.
Taran roared in triumph and raised his arms, enjoying the look of complete shock on everyone’s face except for Rakan, who was smiling from ear to ear as he ran forward to throw his arms around Taran’s shoulders in celebration. The crowd started chanting Taran’s name, and as he exited the turf, his squadmates surrounded him laughing, as hundreds of soldiers followed them back to the Tavern.
As the sun crossed the sky, Taran lost count of the amount of ales that were pressed into his hands, the number of times people clapped him on the back and laughed as they recounted Snark’s demise, and Taran revelled in every second of it.
The whole day seemed to fly past, and as twilight started to fall, Taran finally felt exhaustion settle upon his shoulders like a heavy weight. The crowd of soldiers who had filled the tavern the whole day started to thin, and then there was just him, Rakan, and a few other random soldiers passed out at various tables around the room.
Rakan stepped close. He’d disappeared for some of the evening, Taran had noticed, and his smile stretched his scarred cheeks so that they shone white in the torchlight. ‘Taran, my lad,’ he said, ‘I’ve let you enjoy your day in the sun, and you deserved it. I had my doubts I must admit. I wasn’t sure if you could beat Snark, but you did everything I hoped for and more.
‘The damage to my honour has been answered with blood, and Snark is now burning in the fires of the nine hells. May he scream for all eternity.’ He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention, and seeing that at last they were finally alone, Rakan beckoned to the barkeep who brought over something long, wrapped in a bundle of rags.
Rakan reached out and took it from the barkeep, and Taran could have sworn there was almost a look of shyness on his face as he passed it to Taran. ‘I bet my every last coin that we would win,’ he said, ‘and the odds as you can imagine favoured us hugely. There’s almost nothing that money can buy when you are in the army. You can’t buy land, titles or even early retirement, but money can buy one thing, a good weapon.’
As Taran unwrapped the rags, therein lay a sword alongside its scabbard. He’d yet to officially receive any armour or weapons, thanks to Snark, but now before him was a sword of such craftsmanship, that it shone in the torchlight. Taran himself had helped forge swords for the army, they were reliable, with a decent cutting blade and a good point. But whereas they were functional and dull, this had seen an artist's hand.
‘It's a commander’s blade,’ volunteered Rakan, as he saw Taran’s face looking on in wonder. ‘It cost a pretty penny, but it was worth every single one.’
Taran carefully lifted the sword and looked at the runes etched into the flat of the blade, the crafted hilt which fit so perfectly into his hands, the filigree cross guard and the razored edge. Even the scabbard was a polished dark wood, lacquered and with a supple leather belt.
Taran shook his head at the expense of the gift. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said in hushed disbelief, ‘how can I thank you?’
‘Well,’ said Rakan. ‘Firstly it’s a sword fit for a giant slayer. They said Snark had giant blood in him, and I wouldn’t have doubted it. But how to thank me, well, how about not stabbing me in the back with it when you feel you have the chance!’ and as he said this, he looked Taran straight in the eye.
Taran felt cold, his elation draining away. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Rakan, ‘I might not have your gift, but I can still read a man pretty well. I reckon this makes us even. Yes, I used you, but don’t forget I saved your life, so in some regards, it was mine to use. Now though, now we start afresh.’
Taran looked at Rakan, this time with warmth. How on earth, he thought, could he want to kill Rakan one moment and then see him like a father the next?
‘Afresh,’ agreed Taran, and they reached out to grasp the other's forearm in a warrior’s grip.
‘Now,’ said Rakan, ‘the holiday is over, as tomorrow some of us have a hard ride south. We’ve been assigned an errand, and to be honest, we need to get out of town fast. Many people lost a lot of money when you put Snark in the ground, and they also know I must have made even more. Better we disappear for a while in case someone takes a silly risk to try to get some back.’
With that, they bade one another goodnight, and as Taran went up to his room, he ordered hot water from the barkeep to be brought up.
As the evening had worn on, his hands had started to hurt horribly from the punches he’d landed on Snark’s granite head; also he was covered in bits of Snark. Blood and other pieces of flesh and bone were all over Taran’s clothes, and as he looked in the mirror, he noticed it was on his face and in his hair.
He laughed then, and as the barkeep brought in some steaming bowls of water with the help of two assistants, they looked at him with an admiration that filled him with pride. They put them on the table in front of the mirror, and he started to strip off. He tossed his blood-soaked boots, trousers and shirt at the barkeep, ordered them to be cleaned and left outside his door for the morning, and then sank his hands into the hot water.
His knuckles were all horribly swollen he noticed, but he felt little but satisfaction as he thought about Snark’s demise. He ducked his head down into the bowl, washing his hair, and as he did, his amulet kept snagging on the handle on one of the table's drawers. Irritated, he swung it around onto his back, but the heavy metal kept
slipping around.
Frustrated, Taran stood up and tossed his wet hair back. It was still filthy, and the water was pink with blood.
He started to lift the amulet over his neck, but as he tried, a feeling of unease fell upon him, so he let it drop and bent his head again. This time the amulet caught solidly under one of the drawer handles, and Taran straightened up forcefully. ‘This damn amulet,’ he thought, and as he did so, one of the links broke, and it fell from his neck to the floor.
Taran staggered backwards, his body, his hands, his heart all suddenly gripped with a terrible pain. But worst of all his mind cleared, and he seemed to see for the first time what he’d done.
He fell back on to the bed as tears streamed down his face, and sobs wracked his body. He hadn’t just killed Snark; he’d done something so dark and evil. He’d felt sick when he’d accidentally been the cause of Urg’s death, and here he was just days later killing, laughing, and celebrating. How could he have changed so quickly?
Taran leant over the side of the bed and retched, and his attention was caught by the dark metal amulet glinting in the fading light. He knelt next to it and took a closer look. There was a small grey stone on the back that would have laid against his chest. It was strange, for even as he looked at it, something seemed to move below the surface of the polished exterior. He cautiously reached out, closed his hands around the amulet, and instantly felt better. Feelings of guilt started to recede, and he had to force himself to let it go, such was the relief.
As soon as it left his grasp, the guilt and pain returned, and he knew without question that this was the reason. He sat back on his bed thinking. This amulet had some kind of power to influence his thoughts and feelings. It definitely made him more bloodthirsty and gave satisfaction and joy from killing.