by R. S. Ford
‘Good to see you’ve taken the usual pride in your appearance today,’ said Ermund.
Sarcasm was something Ctenka had come to appreciate from the big southerner.
‘We don’t all have the skills of a seamstress,’ he replied. ‘Some of us have talents that lie elsewhere.’
Ermund’s uniform was always meticulously spruce. There was certainly nothing frayed about him, despite the years of wear. Though Ermund’s past was something of a mystery, and a great source of debate among the militia of Dunrun, it was commonly accepted he must have been a military man through and through.
‘Yes,’ Ermund said, his eyes locked on the Skull Road ahead as it led through the remaining four gates of Dunrun. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll demonstrate exactly what those talents are.’
Ctenka laughed. Ermund retained his stern demeanour. One day he was sure he would see the big southerner crack a smile, but clearly it was not this day.
They crossed the wide courtyard and reached the Chapel Gate. Upon it was built an annexe that had in years past been devoted to prayer. There were still idols symbolising every god of the Cordral pantheon within it, but Ctenka did not know a single militiaman who used it to worship. Now the only gods venerated in Dunrun were those of wine, the only spirits invoked those found in the bottles that were delivered from the capital on rare occasion.
‘It’s very well you complaining. But what chance will I have to prove myself out here in the armpit of nowhere?’ Ctenka said, splaying his arms wide to take in the confines of the fort. They had walked beneath the Chapel Gate now and come out into the wide courtyard of the Tinker’s Gate. It had once been a burgeoning market, where the traders of Shengen and the Cordral would meet to ply their wares. Spices, livestock, precious gems, even ancient codices, would be bartered for within the shadow of the Crooked Jaw. Since the Fall, the Cordral had degenerated into a wilderness, its former agriculture diminishing to little more than the odd farm, scrabbling for existence in the desert. Now Dunrun was derelict – the sand having long since consumed every stall.
‘Prove yourself?’ said Ermund. ‘You could start by showing some attention to your appearance.’ His accent was so thick that Ctenka couldn’t tell whether he detected a hint of disdain or if it was merely his way of speaking. But then big old Ermund always had a way of seeming superior – even when he was conversing with senior officers.
‘Any man can wash a uniform,’ said Ctenka. ‘I want to prove myself in battle. There is war brewing to the west and here we are, guarding a stone ruin.’
‘Have a care what you wish for, Ctenka,’ Ermund replied.
Ctenka waved the big man away. ‘Are you about to tell me of the horrors of war, Ermund? Save your breath. I’ve heard it all before from my father.’
They walked beneath the Tinker’s Gate. Here the pass narrowed to a width of twenty feet and ahead was the Sandstone Gate. Once it may well have been a thing of beauty, but now it was crumbled, the heavy iron portcullis it housed broken and skewed. Nothing now but a useless archway.
‘I would not presume to tell you anything, Ctenka.’ Ermund kept his eyes fixed on the narrow pass ahead. ‘I have seen young men like you before. Seen them lust for glory. Seen them die in misery.’
‘Of course you have.’ They passed beneath the Sandstone Gate and Ctenka quickened his step slightly as he always did – wondering if this might be the day the ancient portcullis came crashing down upon him. ‘And one day you may want to tell me some stories from those joyous times. But until you do, I will fill my dull and empty days with dreams of victories to come.’
They walked across the last courtyard of Dunrun towards the final barbican. The Eagle Gate stood tall, built spanning the twenty-foot width of the pass. From it, the Skull Road wound all the way through the Crooked Jaw to the border of the Shengen Empire. A fifty-mile span of cobbled pathway that was now an abandoned trade route since Emperor Demetrii had been slain. It was said that back in the Age of Apostasy the tyrant Garul Hedtcheka had paved the road with the skulls of his enemies. It was either a tall tale or those skulls had long since been prised from the ground to be replaced by ordinary cobbles. Whatever the truth of it, the name had stuck.
Betul and Munir stood atop the fifty-foot high battlement. Ctenka gave a wave as he approached and Munir waved back enthusiastically. He was even greener than Ctenka, his eagerness for his duties not yet worn down to the nub by their pointlessness. Betul, however, was every inch the jaded recruit. He walked down the twisting stairway from the gate’s summit, his impatience to see his night’s watch end and return to bed obvious from his haste.
‘Day’s greetings, Betul,’ Ctenka said with a wink as they met at the bottom of the stair. ‘You look like I feel.’
‘I’m sure,’ Betul grunted.
His stomach had been fragile for the last two days after eating some spiced lamb none of the other men would touch. It was clear he was suffering for it now.
Ctenka was about to make a poor joke about the prospective state of Betul’s morning shit, when Ermund gripped him by the shoulder.
‘Look,’ said the southerner, pointing through the open gate.
Through it, Ctenka could see down the Skull Road for a half-mile.
Someone was coming.
No one had travelled along the pass for some weeks. The last they had seen were refugees from Shengen, fleeing the harsh rule of their new overlord. Now came what looked like a crowd in the distance.
‘Munir, seal the gate,’ Ermund ordered. The young recruit rushed to obey without a word of complaint; when Ermund barked an order it was generally obeyed, even by those of superior rank. ‘Betul, find Marshal Ziyadin. Ctenka, with me.’
With that Ermund rushed up the stairs of the Eagle Gate with the vigour of a much younger man. Ctenka was at pains to keep pace with him, and when finally they reached the summit it was he, not Ermund, who was out of breath.
From the top of the barbican they could see down through the pass. There was a group of soldiers coming, heavily armoured but moving at speed. A scout party for a larger force perhaps? They were certainly too few in number to be mounting any kind of invasion.
‘How many, do you think?’ Ctenka asked.
‘Forty-two,’ Ermund answered, his keen eyes surmising their number at a glance.
‘Well… what do they want?’
Ermund slowly turned his head to gaze at Ctenka with a raised eyebrow. ‘Why don’t you go down there and ask?’
‘I think I’ll let you do the talking,’ Ctenka replied.
‘I see. Not that keen to earn yourself honour and glory after all.’
‘There’s a time and a place, my friend,’ said Ctenka, watching as the soldiers neared the gate, their armour and weapons looking in much better condition than those of the Dunrun militia.
Well, Ctenka had been hoping for some action.
All he could think was that in future, he should be careful what he wished for.
8
THEY were standing there in ranks – two rows, tower shields locked, spears at rest, pointing upwards to the midday sun. Only forty-two of them, Ermund had said, but there may as well have been an entire legion blocking the narrow pass.
Ctenka could barely take his eyes off them. He had never seen soldiers like this, not even back in the training grounds of Kantor. They were silent and disciplined, well armed and armoured. And all that stood between them and the Cordral was a poorly maintained fort. Should the Emperor of Shengen launch an invasion with his entire army, what could the militia of the Cordral do to stand against them? For the first time Ctenka realised why the fortress of Dunrun was such an important outpost and why it was still manned in this time of relative peace.
A noise below alerted Ctenka to someone ascending the worn stairs of the Eagle Gate. He looked down to see Marshal Ziyadin heading a retinue of militia. The marshal’s jowly face shone with sweat as he reached the summit, puffing for all he was worth. Dark, greasy hair and moustache were slick to hi
s head and face and he used his sheathed sword as a walking stick to help navigate the final few stairs.
Without a word, Ziyadin peered over the parapet, breathing heavily as he took in the scene.
‘What do they want?’ he said finally.
Ctenka looked at Ermund, who looked back at Ziyadin. ‘They have made no demands, Marshal,’ he replied.
Ziyadin glared down at the shield wall as his retinue spread out along the battlement of the Eagle Gate, the archers among them half-heartedly nocking arrows.
‘So what do we do?’ asked the marshal.
It was only now, after so many months of wallowing in this undisciplined shithole, that Ctenka wished they had a more inspiring commander.
‘Perhaps someone should speak to them?’ suggested Ermund.
Ziyadin nodded, still staring down at the ordered ranks below.
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Ermund, go and find out what they want.’
‘Marshal,’ Ermund replied, ‘would it not show more respect if they were greeted by an offi—’
‘Just get on with it, Ermund,’ Ziyadin barked. ‘And take Ctenka if you’re too afraid to do it alone.’
Ctenka felt something prickle on the back of his neck. He almost raised a hand to clean away whatever it was, but he realised that no amount of wiping would rid him of this sudden arse-clenching terror.
Ermund signalled for Ctenka to follow as he headed down the stairs. All Ctenka could focus on was the back of Ermund’s grey-haired head as they made their way below. The words you’re going to die today rattled around his brain again and again as he picked his way carefully down each of the crumbling stairs. Halfway he considered feigning a trip so he could pretend he was injured, but that would have done little good. Ermund would have seen through the ruse and dragged him along anyway.
When they reached the bottom, Ermund ordered the gate open. To his left and right, militiamen rushed to lift the vast bars that secured the Eagle Gate. Despite the crumbling battlements at least the gate was secure. And what was Ctenka doing? Oh yes, walking right through it to face a grim-looking wall of would-be invaders.
‘What are we going to say?’ he whispered to Ermund as he followed the southerner through the gap in the gate.
‘We’re not saying anything,’ Ermund replied in a low voice. ‘You’re going to keep your mouth shut and I’m going to politely ask them what they want.’
‘And what if they want to kill us?’ Ctenka’s voice went up involuntarily at the end.
‘Then I imagine it’ll be a short conversation.’
Now he makes jokes, Ctenka thought. After all these months he picks now to make bloody jokes.
Both men walked out onto the Skull Road. Ctenka let Ermund lead the way, more than happy to keep his mouth shut as the southerner had suggested. When they approached the shield wall a gap suddenly appeared in its midst, well-drilled soldiers moving aside to create a corridor through which a single warrior strode.
He wore the same burnished steel as the rest, his dark hair tied in a topknot. Deep green eyes were set within the saturnine features of his handsome face and he walked with all the confidence of a man surrounded by forty-odd of the hardest killers you could find.
The warrior stopped a dozen feet in front of the shield wall, one hand resting casually on the pommel of his curved blade, the other cradling his plumed helmet in the crook of one arm. He was calm as Ctenka and Ermund approached. Ctenka couldn’t help but be reminded of a cat watching a rat the instant before it pounced for the kill.
Ermund came to stand just before the warrior, Ctenka waiting further back. In his head he made a plan of attack should things go awry. Deep down he knew the best response would be to flee, but the Eagle Gate had been closed behind them. There was little else he would do but die if this all went tits up.
Neither the Shengen warrior nor Ermund spoke at first, each happy to stand there sizing the other up. Neither man seemed willing to break the tension until the big southerner said, ‘I am Ermund of the Cordral Extent’s Great Eastern Militia.’
The warrior replied in a thick eastern accent. ‘Laigon Valdyr. Centurion, Fourth Standing of the Shengen Imperial Army.’
Ctenka couldn’t help stifle a sigh once the introductions were out of the way.
‘You are far from home, Centurion,’ said Ermund.
Laigon nodded. ‘It is our home no longer.’
‘Unfortunate. And you would seek safe passage into the Cordral?’
Laigon looked up at the high battlements of the Eagle Gate and at the men looking down pensively.
‘I would speak with your commanding officer, Militiaman Ermund. Though it seems he is loath to grant me audience.’
‘You must understand our caution. We have received no envoy from the Shengen Empire in a year. Your arrival is something of a surprise.’
Ermund sounded as though he had welcomed foreign envoys before. His voice did not quaver, his body language confident and rigid, despite the air of tension that hung over the exchange.
‘Our arrival was not planned. And we bring grave news from the east. If I were to speak with your commander I could explain.’
Ermund nodded. ‘Then speak you will, Centurion. But your men and your weapon must wait outside the gates.’
Laigon nodded, spinning on his heel and walking back to the shield wall. He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to one of his men. Ctenka could see words briefly exchanged, the soldier expressing his concerns to his senior officer, but Laigon remained adamant. Ctenka noted that, up close, the warriors arrayed before him were not quite as splendid as they had appeared from the battlements. There was weariness in their eyes, their armour and shields dented and scratched from battle.
When Laigon returned unarmed, Ermund led him back towards the gate. Ctenka stood beside the centurion as though guarding a prisoner, but the man carried an aura of power about him that was undeniable. Even though Ctenka was armed he doubted he’d ever be a match for this warrior.
The gate opened wide enough for the three men to walk through, and once they were inside it was hastily barred. Marshal Ziyadin had climbed down from the summit of the Eagle Gate and stood waiting, his expression one of ingrained suspicion.
Ermund stopped before the marshal. ‘May I present Laigon Valdyr. Centurion, Fourth Standing of the Shengen Imperial Army.’ Ctenka was amazed at how the southerner had remembered the full title. In all the excitement Ctenka had barely remembered the Shengen’s name. Ermund continued, ‘This is Ziyadin. Marshal of the Cordral Extent’s Great Eastern Militia.’
Laigon raised a fist to his chest and bowed. ‘Marshal. My thanks for opening your gates.’
Ziyadin looked unsure of how to proceed. In the meantime, Ermund had taken a waterskin from one of the surrounding militiamen and offered it to the centurion, who took it with a grateful nod and drank deeply.
‘So… what can we do for you, Centurion Valdyr?’ Ziyadin asked, the sweat trickling down his brow.
Laigon glanced from Ziyadin back to Ermund, as though he recognised the marshal for the useless ape he was. It was clear Ermund was the most capable veteran here. Ctenka could see Laigon was not a man to suffer fools.
‘The centurion brings grave news from the Shengen Empire, Marshal,’ Ermund said.
‘So grave that a contingent of legionaries comes to give us the news?’ asked Marshal Ziyadin.
‘Legionaries no more,’ said Laigon. ‘We are exiles from the empire. Men still loyal to Emperor Demetrii. The past year has seen the empire fall foul of usurpers and we were lucky to survive.’
‘We learned that the emperor was dead,’ said Ziyadin.
‘Indeed. Slain by a warlord known as the Iron Tusk. Every Standing in the Imperial Army has bowed to his will. The Iron Tusk has conquered Shengen and the territories of the Mercenary Barons. Now he turns his eye west. Before long he will march the armies of the empire along the Skull Road and this place will be overrun.’
‘So you have come seeki
ng safe passage?’ asked Ziyadin. It was clear he was unhappy with the idea.
‘No, Marshal. We have come to defend this place, and your lands, from the onslaught. But we will need reinforcements. If word is not sent to Kantor, if Dunrun does not stand against him, then the Iron Tusk will destroy every kingdom in the western lands.’
Ziyadin was silent as he pondered the gravity of Laigon’s words.
‘How do we know this is not a ruse?’ said Ermund, breaking the silence. ‘How do we know you have not been sent to take Dunrun in advance of this warlord’s arrival to weaken our defences?’
‘You have only my word,’ said Laigon. ‘If it is not good enough then take us prisoner, but I beseech you to send word to Kantor at the least. You need an army to stand against this warlord. Your walls will not be enough, trust me on that.’
‘I… I need time to think on this,’ said Ziyadin.
‘You cannot delay,’ Laigon replied. ‘Even now, five Standings muster at the eastern edge of the Crooked Jaw. The Iron Tusk will lead his armies here in weeks. You must send word.’
‘On the testament of a self-confessed exile?’ said Ziyadin, shaking his head. ‘You expect me to trust what you say?’
‘Clap me in irons, if you don’t trust me. Take my head if you must. But if you do nothing this place will be ashes before the month is out, and you will be responsible.’
Ziyadin looked at his men, even at Ctenka, before his eyes came to rest on Ermund.
‘What should we do?’ he said.
Ermund didn’t take long to mull it over. ‘Take their weapons. Allow them inside the walls under guard. Time will tell if what the centurion says is true. Whatever happens, we must send word to Kantor.’
Laigon seemed relieved. Ziyadin even more so that someone had made the decision for him.
‘Very well,’ said the marshal. ‘Ermund, you will take word. If the aldermen of Kantor wish to send us a cohort then so be it.’
‘A wise decision,’ said Laigon. Whether that was directed at Ermund or Ziyadin it was impossible to tell. ‘But believe me when I say, a cohort will not be enough to defend the pass against the force that is coming.’