Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2)

by R. S. Ford

  They hadn’t stood a chance. The Mercenary Barons paid for the loyalty of their armies in gold. How could they ever have stood against an army devoted to its immortal warlord? A leader who commanded the undying devotion of a standing army. A fighting force of true faith and determination.

  As he stood viewing the carnage, Laigon felt neither faithful nor determined. He was sick to his stomach. The clawing doubt that had festered in his mind since the death of Demetrii was beginning to consume him. Now all he felt was sorrow and regret, as though drifting on a sea of his own mistakes. The only solace was in knowing he wasn’t alone.

  Primaris Vallion stood beside him, and Laigon could see the conflict in the officer’s eyes. There should have been pride there after such an overwhelming conquest, but he saw only lamentation.

  ‘What have we become?’ asked Vallion. He looked nervously towards Laigon, as though he had been caught in a lie. It was clearly a thought he would rather have kept to himself, and he bowed his head in shame. ‘Apologies, Centurion. I am overcome.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Vallion. I see it as well as you do.’

  Already legionaries of the Fourth were beheading corpses and mounting them atop pikes – a custom the Iron Tusk had insisted on after every victory. A message, he had told them. As though their crushing victory were not message enough. But this was not just victory – it was annihilation. Not only had the Mercenary Barons been slaughtered without mercy, but so had the innocents that lived beneath their yoke. Laigon had seen the slaughter of women and children. Of slaves and livestock. It was as though the Iron Tusk were purging their memory from the face of the earth.

  ‘If it were within my power to change this, I would,’ said Laigon. ‘But what would we do? Walk away from this place? From the empire and everything we know? We serve or we are outcasts. That is no choice for legionaries.’

  ‘Surely there would be no shame in it,’ said Vallion.

  ‘No, my friend,’ he replied. ‘There would be no shame. But where would we run to? Nowhere would be far enough. We would be condemning ourselves to death.’ He found himself trying to pick apart the suggestion, but the more he thought on it the more the notion appealed.

  ‘Not if there were enough of us,’ Vallion replied. ‘There are more within the Fourth who feel as we do. I know it.’

  ‘And there are more still who remain bewitched by the tyrant who holds our fealty.’

  ‘But surely we have a duty to do what is right, Centurion? We must flee to the west. We must warn the nations across the Jaw what awaits them.’

  Laigon looked out at the butchery and could not deny that Vallion was right. They should warn the westerners of what was to come, but it seemed an impossible task. Besides, was it not better that his own nation survived? Laigon had been a servant of the Shengen Empire since first he was inducted into the Fourth. Surely he should stand with his own countrymen rather than counsel the western nations so they were forewarned and ready to fight against Laigon’s own people? But then, this was not the Shengen he had devoted himself to. His countrymen were no longer the free subjects of an empire but the servants of a despot.

  ‘We should not speak of this, Vallion,’ Laigon said, turning back towards the command tent. ‘It is treason. Best we look to our duties and forget we ever uttered such heresies.’

  He took the long walk back towards camp, passing the massacre, the wounded and the dying. Kneeling at the edge of the encampment were scores of prisoners. Men in chains, all hope gone. Every face looked forlorn as they awaited their fate. Laigon knew only too well what that fate would be and the prospect sickened him yet further.

  Back in his command tent, Laigon began to strip off his heavy armour. With every piece of plate he unbuckled, the more his burden seemed to lighten until he was standing in nothing but his tunic. The answer to his troubles seemed clearer as he stood in the sanctity of his tent. He would return to the White City, take Verrana and Petrachus, and whatever possessions they could carry, then head east. Away from this fallen empire. Away from the doomed nations in the west.

  And he hadn’t even needed to pray for the answer.

  Laigon went to the small chest that contained his meagre belongings. Inside was a small pewter figurine of Portius; a portly figure in a pointed hat. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It was cold to the touch, the crudely carved face smiling up at him. Laigon ran a thumb over that head, and felt a sharp pain. The tapered end of the trickster god’s hat had drawn blood. Laigon almost laughed at the tiny smiling face.

  ‘Another great victory.’

  Laigon turned to see a praetorian standing behind him, and silently cursed himself that he had so easily been snuck up on. Luckily it was a face he recognised, though one he would have preferred not to see. Manse’s well-oiled hair and pristine armour was testament to how little he had contributed to their recent victory. He and Laigon went back a long way, though it had not always been on the best of terms. ‘You are fast earning yourself a reputation, Centurion,’ Manse continued. ‘The Iron Tusk will be pleased.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so, Praetorian,’ Laigon replied, though in truth he could not have cared less how the Iron Tusk regarded him.

  ‘All that remains is to perform our sacrifices and we may cast these Mercenary Barons into history.’

  Laigon turned to regard the praetorian. He could see the same zeal in his eyes he had observed in so many of the Iron Tusk’s servants.

  ‘Sacrifices? What do you mean?’

  Manse shrugged. ‘There are prisoners, Centurion. The Iron Tusk would have his benefaction. Your duties are not done yet.’

  ‘I am a soldier,’ Laigon replied. ‘Not a butcher. If you want a sacrifice performed, find a priest.’

  ‘This is how we do things now, Laigon. You know—’

  ‘It is not how I do things, Manse.’

  The smug expression fell from the praetorian’s face. ‘Are you refusing to carry out the will of the Iron Tusk?’

  ‘I am telling you we have slaughtered enough enemies for one day. Perhaps for all the days to come. The Mercenary Barons are defeated. Beaten and on their knees. What difference is a sacrifice? Do you not remember the teachings of the Eleusian? Mercy in victory is the only way to earn your enemy’s respect.’

  Clearly Manse had never been taught the tenets of the Eleusian scriptures. ‘If you refuse this, there will be repercussions, Laigon. We are all servants to—’

  ‘To what, Manse? A year ago we were servants to the empire. Now what are we? Slaves? Murderers?’

  Manse shook his head. ‘What has got into you?’

  ‘No! What has got into you? All of you! This is not how the Standings go to war. This is not how we raised our empire. This is not how we built a nation.’

  Manse looked flustered for an instant, but then it was gone. He ran a hand over his pristinely coiffured head. ‘You will carry out the sacrifice or you will suffer the consequences.’

  ‘Consequences?’ Laigon suddenly felt naked in front of the armoured praetorian. For a moment he wished he had not been so hasty to remove his burdensome armour. ‘And where were the consequences when the Iron Tusk murdered our emperor? An emperor you were sworn to protect?’

  ‘He was not worthy of—’

  ‘Not worthy? Demetrii was like a father to all of us. And you stood by and watched while he was torn apart by a wild beast. You fell to your knees with the rest of us when that animal took his throne.’

  ‘You speak heresy.’ Laigon could see he had provoked the praetorian but he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care about any of this.

  ‘I speak the truth, Manse. We serve a tyrant. I’m not the only one who thinks it.’

  ‘Who else thinks it? This sacrilege has clearly spread like an infection. It must be cut out.’

  It was obvious now that Manse was never going to throw off the glamour as Laigon and others had. He was a fanatic, addicted to the Iron Tusk like some men were to the poppy.

&nb
sp; ‘No, Manse. We are not the ones who are infected. You are.’

  There were no more words. Manse drew the dagger at his side. Laigon managed to grab Manse’s wrist before he could stab him. The dagger was aimed at his midriff, and the two men tested their strength for an instant before Laigon realised he was about to lose. Manse was the bigger, more powerful man, but Laigon had trained for a lifetime in how to overcome stronger opponents.

  He felt the figurine still gripped in his right hand, cold against his palm. With a growl he balled a fist and punched Manse in the throat.

  The praetorian reeled back, raising a hand to his neck as Laigon wrested the dagger from his grip. Manse recovered, surging forward to stop Laigon before he could deal a killing blow. Both men struggled, upturning a table as they fell. By some freak of luck Laigon was on top, forcing the dagger down. Before Manse could cry out for aid, Laigon punched down on his dagger hand, forcing the blade into the praetorian’s neck.

  He held it there, his breath coming heavy, as Manse’s became shallow, mouth filling with blood, eyes glassing over as his life ebbed.

  When there was no resistance left in Manse, Laigon rose to his feet.

  There was silence as he stood and waited. It seemed no one was coming to see what had befallen the praetorian.

  Reverently, Laigon donned his armour, feeling the weight of it encumber his body once more. But this time he did not feel weighed down by the guilt of his actions. He had murdered one of his own, but it was the most just killing he had performed in over a year. For the first time in so long, Laigon was cleansed of guilt and focused of purpose.

  Returning to Nephyr would be suicide. Even if he could reach his wife and child he could never escort them out of the White City in safety. They would be caught and condemned alongside him. The only way they would not be held complicit was if he left them behind.

  Laigon gritted his teeth, his heart sinking with the knowledge he would have to leave alone, strike out west and warn the armies of the Cordral what was coming.

  One last glance down at Manse’s corpse and he knew there was nothing left here for him. He opened his palm, gazing at the figurine of Portius one last time before he wrapped it in a linen cloth and slipped it in his belt. Laigon would have at least one good luck charm, even if all the other gods had abandoned him.

  He left the command tent, still buckling on his sword, and scanned the area until he spotted Vallion by one of the fires burning on the battlefield.

  ‘Gather the Fourth,’ he said to the Primaris.

  His second-in-command obeyed without question, and as Vallion called for the men of the Fourth Standing to attend, Laigon watched the prisoners sitting in their sorry droves. There was nothing he could do for them, but perhaps there was something he could do for the men of his Standing.

  In short order, what remained of the Fourth Standing were gathered about him, bloodied and battle weary. They had fought a hard campaign for the best part of a year, their numbers heavily depleted in the costly war, and now he was to ask yet more of them. One last sacrifice.

  ‘Men of the Fourth,’ Laigon began. There were barely four hundred men left from his legion. Four hundred out of two thousand. ‘You have fought bravely for the past year. You have served the Empire of Shengen proudly. But you were deceived.’ Laigon could already feel the disquiet brewing among them. ‘We have all been deceived. Used as slaves, not soldiers. The Iron Tusk is a false god. A false emperor.’ Men began to shake their heads, unable to rid themselves of that insidious influence. ‘And so I can lead you no longer. I will take the Skull Road west. If any of you wish to join me you are welcome at my side, my brothers. To those of you who refuse, I only ask that we are allowed to leave unmolested.’

  He did not wait, but turned his back and walked towards the shadow of the Crooked Jaw. It would not have been wise to let his men think on his words for too long. Those whose loyalty to the Iron Tusk was strongest may have answered his mutiny with violence, but Laigon gambled on their devotion to him.

  As he walked away he was relieved to discover he had gambled wisely, and though he expected a spear in the back at any moment, he was allowed to leave in peace.

  The walk to the mountain took half a day. Laigon did not turn until he had almost reached the rugged pass that marked the start of the Skull Road. Only then did he look to see how many of the Fourth Standing had put their loyalty in a centurion above that for a despot.

  Forty-one men had followed him.

  Not enough to stand against an empire.

  But it was a start.

  9

  The Cordral Extent, 106 years after the Fall

  CTENKA listened to Laigon’s story like it was a tale from before the Fall. Part of him still couldn’t believe how easily the Shengen had fallen foul of a single warlord from the mountains, and in such a short space of time. Perhaps Laigon’s suspicion that there was something more to this Iron Tusk was right. Or perhaps his tale had become more fanciful in the telling. Either way, if there was even the slightest chance his words were true – if the Shengen Empire had crushed its enemies in the east and was now turning its eye to the Cordral – they had to act.

  ‘This Iron Tusk,’ said Marshal Ziyadin. ‘What is he? The way you describe him, he can be no mere man.’ The way his voice wavered it was clear Ziyadin was fearful of the tale. He was on the frontier after all, and would be the first to face the Shengen army if it truly was on its way along the Skull Road.

  ‘He is just a man,’ Laigon replied. ‘One who inspires loyalty like no one I have ever seen. He is as divine to his followers as any god.’

  ‘Gods,’ said Ermund. ‘Fanciful tales of legend. This Iron Tusk is a man like any other. And can be killed like any other. But with the might of the Shengen Empire behind him it will take more than a poorly garrisoned fort to hold him back.’

  ‘How far away are your countrymen?’ Ziyadin asked, the fear in his voice now palpable.

  Laigon shrugged. ‘With the Mercenary Barons defeated it will not take long to muster the rest of the Standings. A few weeks at most.’

  ‘Very well,’ Ziyadin said. ‘Ermund, when you reach Kantor you will need to explain the gravity of this situation. We need reinforcements. This place must be fully garrisoned before the Shengen arrive. Ctenka, you know the Cordral as well as anyone. It will be your responsibility to ensure he gets there in one piece.’

  Ctenka doubted Ermund needed any help getting anywhere, but he knew he couldn’t argue with the marshal. Besides, if Laigon was right, and the Shengen army were only going to take weeks, it might be better if he was far away when they arrived. Better he return to this place behind an army than be standing at the wall with a few old men and green recruits when the Iron Tusk turned up.

  ‘Then we need to rest,’ said Ermund, rising to his feet. ‘It’s a long road to Kantor. And thank you, Centurion. We appreciate your bravery and the sacrifice you have made in coming here.’

  Laigon nodded his appreciation, but said nothing. As they left, Ctenka couldn’t help but feel for Laigon. The centurion had fled his homeland in disgrace, with no idea what might become of his family, all so that foreigners might better defend themselves from an army he had recently been a part of. Ctenka could never imagine being so courageous.

  That night he hardly slept. All he could do was stare at the ceiling of the barracks, half excited, half terrified at what was to come. His memories of Kantor had faded over the months and all he remembered was the hard training he had suffered. Perhaps this time he might get to appreciate the majestic spires and lush gardens, but how could he appreciate the prospect when such a threat hung over the Cordral Extent? The weight of his responsibility kept him awake for most of the night until, bleary eyed, he was forced to drag himself from his bed.

  Ermund had already risen and was checking their horses as Ctenka left his room and headed to the stables.

  ‘Good to see you are at least taking this task seriously,’ said the southerner, without looking up
.

  ‘I know my responsibilities, Ermund,’ Ctenka replied.

  ‘Do you?’ Ermund looked his usual grave and serious self. ‘We cannot fail in this. We have to secure reinforcements, perhaps the entire Kantor Militia, if we are to hold back the Shengen.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot.’ Not everyone could be so dedicated to their position as Ermund, but Ctenka knew the importance of their mission, and the constant suggestion that he was some kind of slovenly ingrate was growing tiresome.

  ‘No,’ Ermund replied. ‘You’re not. So time to stop acting it.’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ermund turned to face him, looking the young recruit up and down. ‘Uniform still in a state. And have you even drawn that weapon since you brought it from Kantor?’

  Ctenka looked down at the sheathed blade. He couldn’t remember if he had.

  Before he could make up some excuse, Ctenka saw Ziyadin crossing the courtyard, his eyes bloodshot from the previous night’s wine. At his side was Laigon, still bearing that solemn nobility, despite the fact he had been stripped of his armour.

  ‘It’s good to see you are keen to be off,’ said Ziyadin.

  ‘Almost ready, Marshal,’ Ermund replied.

  ‘Good. I’m sure I don’t have to explain the magnitude of your task.’

  ‘No, Marshal,’ Ctenka said quickly. Ermund had already more than covered it.

  They mounted their horses. Ctenka hadn’t even bothered to inspect the saddlebags at his mount’s flanks, trusting Ermund had already taken care of it. Silently he made a note that in the future he would check his own supplies. Better that than give the southerner yet more reasons to admonish him.

  As they rode out of the gate of Dunrun, with the sun rising ahead of them, Ctenka took a glance back. Ziyadin and Laigon were both watching in silence. Despite the marshal being his superior officer, it was the centurion that Ctenka suddenly felt responsible to. He didn’t want to let the man down. A man who had already sacrificed so much for a people he barely knew. Even when he had harboured an idealistic view of his future in the militia, Ctenka had never felt such a sense of responsibility as he did now.