Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2)

by R. S. Ford

  RANDAL

  I

  THE graveyard was empty but for an old dead tree standing mangled and rotten in one corner. A crow cawed somewhere at the grey sky, most likely complaining about the cold, wet air. Randal stood silently as the priest anointed the covered grave, invoking the names of the gods – Aethel, Urien, Juthwara and the rest. They were names Randal had forgotten, but then he had long since stopped believing in the old gods. He knew better than anyone that there were new gods abroad. Vengeful malevolent gods that had been newly awoken from their slumber. His journey north had taught him that, if nothing else.

  It had been a lesson hard in the teaching, though. One that had almost killed him, and when he returned he found his mother was already dead. How she must have called for him from her sick bed in those final days. Her only son, gone, and she had no idea whether he was dead or alive. How it must have tortured her until her final breath.

  And all because of Livia Harrow.

  That girl had led Randal on a merry dance north. And of course he had followed. Once he had the bit between his teeth there was never any stopping him. It had almost killed him, and even now he couldn’t quite believe how he had survived the journey home across hundreds of miles of desert. But Randal had made it. And what had been his reward? Gothelm had admonished him for his failure, humiliating Randal in front of his court. After everything he had done for that bastard. Every trial suffered and he had been treated like an errant child.

  The priest had finished now, and they both stood in silence over an old woman’s grave. What would she have thought of him if she knew the deeds he had performed in the name of Duke Gothelm? He had slit Ben Harrow’s throat in that duty. Randal could only imagine what his mother would have called him for that. Monster, perhaps?

  Randal was sure there were worse words. And now his mother was dead she’d never know what lengths he had gone to to keep this realm safe. But what could he do to protect it now the gods had returned? He had seen Innellan rise in the north. Had felt how much power she wielded over the hearts and minds of those beneath her gaze. No mortal could hope to rival that. This realm was powerless, its folk little more than livestock awaiting slaughter. There was no way Randal could have ever made Gothelm understand that, and so he had not even tried.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said the priest, as a none-too-subtle hint that his work was done. Randal deposited a piece of silver in the priest’s hand and turned to where his horse was tied up outside the graveyard. There he saw a rider was waiting for him, one Randal didn’t recognise.

  ‘Waiting for me?’ he said as he drew nearer.

  ‘I am,’ said the rider, tipping the front of his brimmed hat. ‘Gothelm sends his condolences.’

  ‘That’s kind of him,’ said Randal. ‘What does he really want?’

  The rider smirked. Gothelm couldn’t have cared two shits for Randal’s loss.

  ‘He wants to see you. Now.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ said Randal, climbing atop his horse. ‘Then I suppose you’d best lead the way.’

  The pair rode east along the well-trodden path. The Canbrian countryside looked bleak in autumn, but compared to where Randal had recently been it was like some kind of paradise. Randal almost relished the damp that seeped through his cloak. The oppressive desert heat had nearly killed him, and he found himself looking forward to the wet southern winter.

  ‘Any idea what this is about?’ asked Randal as they rode.

  The messenger shrugged beneath his riding cloak. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. But Gothelm was keen you were to visit with him immediately. You know what he’s like – all bluster and no patience.’

  Randal could attest to that. Gothelm could be like a spoiled child, albeit a particularly cruel and sadistic one, when it took his fancy. But he was duke of the province. And Randal his tallyman, bound to carry out his bidding, whatever that might be. Better to be servant to a cruel master than his enemy.

  The rain was coming down in a fine spray as they reached Gothelm’s castle. It was a much-feared stronghold. The depravity that was rumoured to go on within its walls had given the place a grim reputation. As Randal rode into the bailey all he could think was how much it looked like any other castle in Canbria – brick walls, merlons, portcullis. There was nothing demonic about this place or the man who owned it. Randal had experienced the demonic, and in comparison Gothelm’s proclivity for cruelty was child’s play.

  Once inside, Randal was led to the main hall. Gothelm had a throne built at one end, all stone and iron, to rival that of King Stellan himself. Randal could only think how pathetic the fat sot looked, sitting there like a pig on a bench.

  To Gothelm’s left stood another tallyman, one Randal recognised. Bertrand was younger than Randal, but much more ambitious. Their paths had seldom crossed, but the younger tallyman had already built quite the reputation, in a very different way to Randal. He used his position to curry favour with men of influence all across the duchy and he approached his duties with a much lighter tread than many of his more zealous peers.

  ‘Randal, you’re late,’ said Gothelm, as the tallyman entered.

  ‘Apologies, my lord. I had other business to attend to.’

  Gothelm didn’t ask what, so he’d either forgotten or didn’t care about Randal’s mother. It came as no surprise.

  Randal stopped some feet before the throne. He didn’t know whether to kneel or simply bow. He decided on neither. Again, Gothelm didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I have a job for you,’ said the duke. ‘Let’s consider it a chance for you to redeem yourself.’ Randal bristled at the suggestion he had done any wrong in Gothelm’s service but he stayed silent. ‘Bertrand here has discovered something to the east of the province. Strange goings on in Murhair County. Children dabbling in witchcraft or some such. I want you to find out what’s going on.’

  Randal looked at the face of the tallyman standing beside the duke. One of those faces it would have been satisfying to smash with a bat.

  ‘And why can’t Bertrand investigate this by himself?’ Randal asked.

  ‘I thought this a task perfectly suited to your individual talents, Randal,’ Gothelm said.

  Again, Randal resented the suggestion. Orphaned children and witchcraft. It was clear Bertrand didn’t have the stomach for the execution of children. But Randal…

  ‘Very well, my lord,’ he said. ‘I will investigate immediately.’

  ‘Good,’ Gothelm replied. ‘And try to make it clean this time.’

  Randal bowed. The thought of old dead Ben Harrow flashed into his mind and it stung him sharper than it ought to have.

  ‘I will, my lord. Cleaner than a priest’s conscience.’

  * * *

  The route east to Murhair was more an unused goat path than a road. Randal had taken up the lead with Bertrand close behind. Behind that were more tallymen, four in all, each one a man Randal knew and trusted. Clearly Bertrand thought it was excessive.

  ‘Six of us for an orphanage full of children?’ he said as they made their way down a crumbling slope.

  Randal shook his head. ‘If I’ve learned one thing, it’s never to underestimate your quarry.’

  ‘For children?’ Bertrand still didn’t seem to get it.

  ‘You were the one who reported the rumours to Gothelm,’ Randal said. ‘Now you’re squeamish about what we might face?’

  ‘No,’ Bertrand replied in a tone that suggested every part of him was squeamish about this whole thing. ‘I just thought…’

  ‘You thought this would be an easy way to embed yourself in Gothelm’s good graces. You thought if there was any dirty work to be done, I would be the one to do it. You thought involving me would keep your hands clean. But here you are. No one keeps their hands clean in this business. Not even you.’

  Bertrand stayed silent until he quietly mumbled, ‘I was sorry to hear about your loss.’

  Randal masked a smile. Clearly he had rattled Bertrand. ‘So everyo
ne keeps saying,’ was his only reply.

  They didn’t speak again all the way to Murhair.

  The orphanage wasn’t what Randal had expected. The building itself was an old temple, a crumbling turret to each of the twelve gods poking up from the dull grey stone like tines on a battered crown. The place was silent, as though its days of reverent worship had never ended.

  Randal climbed down from his horse, Bertrand beside him, and together they entered through the front door. Inside were rows of children, each seated on the floor, reciting their letters as a woman at the front pointed to a chalkboard. Nothing sinister about the place, just an ordinary, rural classroom.

  On seeing them enter, the woman fell silent, recognising the tallymen who had come to her door.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said. Every child turned to look at Randal.

  ‘Please forgive the intrusion. I am Randal Weirwulf. Servant of Duke Gothelm.’

  ‘And I am Lagather Goodwife. Priestess of Maerwynn. What business does Duke Gothelm have at my orphanage?’

  ‘Nothing to alarm yourself with, Mistress Goodwife,’ Randal replied. ‘Duke Gothelm is merely ensuring those living under his wing are well cared for. Especially those he deems most in need.’

  Randal cast his eye over the gathered children, every one of them still staring at him. But no… not every one of them. In the corner were three children sitting in a circle. Each one had a shaved head and they were locked in intense conversation.

  ‘And for that we are grateful,’ said the priestess. ‘But, as you can see, we are quite content here.’

  ‘I can,’ said Randal. ‘But I wonder if we might talk in private, Mistress Goodwife?’

  She glanced at Bertrand, then at the children under her care, before agreeing to Randal’s request.

  He and the priestess walked outside. A chill nip of air hit Randal and he realised how warm and welcoming it had been inside.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, as they both strolled down towards a narrow river that ran past the temple. ‘Have you noticed anything strange about any of your children? Anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Every one of them is unique in their own way,’ the priestess replied.

  ‘I think you know what I mean, Mistress Goodwife,’ Randal replied. ‘I think you know I’m asking if any of your children have displayed any kind of… gift.’

  Lagather thought on his words for a moment. Randal had seen it countless times before. She was weighing up the value of lying to him. In the end everyone told the truth, and fortunately Lagather decided that was her best option.

  ‘Of late… yes,’ she said.

  ‘Fear not, Mistress Goodwife. Your children are safe as long as you tell me the truth of what has happened.’

  The priestess paused for a moment, her hand grasping tightly to the pendant of Maerwynn she had around her neck. Randal could tell she didn’t quite believe him. The reputation of the tallymen was such that no one trusted them, but fear always made people talk.

  ‘Recently, when the children have been at prayer, some of them have shown… signs of communion.’

  ‘Communion?’ Randal stopped by the river, the sound of it soothing. ‘What do you mean?’

  Lagather glanced back towards the temple. ‘Some of them are able to perform miracles. As though when they pray to the gods, their prayers are answered.’

  ‘I see,’ said Randal. ‘And does anyone else know about this? Other than Bertrand, have you told anyone what has happened here?’

  ‘No,’ said Lagather. ‘No one.’ She reached out, taking hold of Randal’s sleeve. ‘You must understand, these children are under my care. I am duty bound to protect them. No harm can come to them. Please…’

  Randal took her hand and removed it from his sleeve. ‘Oh, Mistress Goodwife, your children are quite safe.’

  He turned back to the temple. His tallymen were already moving down to the riverside. As he passed them he heard the priestess begin to protest, but Randal had long ago learned how to deafen himself to cries for clemency. Mistress Goodwife’s struggle was a brief one before the tallymen dragged her into the shallow river and submerged her head beneath its waters.

  Bertrand was outside the temple, his eyes wide as the scene unfolded in front of him.

  ‘What now, Weirwulf?’ He sounded disgusted, the disdain dripping from his lips. ‘We burn this place down with every child still inside?’

  Randal was sickened by his cowardice. Bertrand didn’t object to what was happening… he was simply too weak to do his own dirty work.

  A knife was in Randal’s hand and at Bertrand’s neck before the little shit could speak further.

  ‘I’ll tell you what now,’ said Randal, close in Bertrand’s ear. ‘Now we return to Gothelm and tell him there was nothing to report. We tell him these stories of witchcraft were nothing but empty rumour. Do you understand?’ Bertrand nodded. ‘I hope so. Because if I find out Gothelm has learned anything about this, someone is going to visit your brother in Ankhem. I’ve heard Meryl is a beautiful girl. It would be a shame if anything happened to your niece’s pretty face. Do we understand one another?’

  Bertrand nodded.

  Randal put away the knife and entered the temple once more. The place was eerily silent. Not something Randal would have expected. Children left unsupervised were rarely quiet for long.

  He walked to the front of the classroom, and all eyes were on him once more.

  ‘Children,’ he said, a smile on his face. ‘Why don’t we talk about the gods…?’

  II

  RANDAL had never thought of himself as paternal. Finding a wife and starting a family had always been something that appealed to other men. It came as a surprise that he then found himself spending longer at the orphanage than he would have previously thought healthy.

  The children were receptive, obedient and, after he had evaded their questions about Mistress Goodwife’s fate, completely beholden to his every word. It was a strange power he held over these youngsters. A distant change from the power he usually held over people, which was derived via threats of violence and torture.

  Of course it had taken no time to discover his favourites – five of them in all, each gifted in their own unique way. Bertrand’s rumours and Mistress Goodwife’s confirmation of their unique gifts had merely scratched the surface of what these children were capable of, and Randal wasted no time in nurturing their potential.

  Hestan was the eldest. His hair was shorn to the scalp – the result of a bout of lice he’d had when younger, but now he kept it that way through preference. He was a quiet boy, as they all were, but there was something unnerving about him. Randal hadn’t been able to put his finger on just what, until the boy had wanted something from one of the other children and been refused it. With a word and a gesture Hestan had compelled the child to give him the small wooden horse he coveted. The incident fascinated Randal so much he had ordered one of his tallymen to bring him every book he could find on the Crown Sorcerers. It was clear Randal had some studying to do.

  Lena and Castiel were twins. They spoke to no one but each other, though it was clear they could understand anything asked of them. They walked around, often holding hands, their heads inclined towards one another. Lena was always cold, shivering in her brother’s arms, whereas Castiel could be seen perspiring even when the weather was inclement. The smell from them both was most like rotten turnips, but Randal was willing to put up with that. He hadn’t quite worked out the nature of their gifts but he was more than happy to wait. He was sure patience would be its own reward where these children were concerned.

  Little Mabel Fogg’s gifts were the easiest to spot. She often delighted the other children with her ability to arrange stones and toys without touching them. The other children had no idea what horrors they were witnessing – how just being privy to such witchcraft put them in mortal danger. But Randal had taken on responsibility for his wards. As long as they stayed within the temple he would see that no harm came to any
of them. They were his now, and he took his duties as their guardian very seriously.

  Youngest of those gifted children was Olivar. Little more than an infant, Olivar spoke in religious tenets, relaying his scripture better than any nursery rhyme. As a result he too had been gifted, but it was a blessing he was far too young to control. His childish tantrums manifested in displays of inhuman strength. Accompanied with an infant’s rage it was a truly terrifying display. As a consequence, Randal had ordered the boy locked away. When he understood more, he would be sure to pay special attention to Olivar’s development.

  These children were all special in their own way, but for now Randal only needed Hestan. The boy was clever, cunning and, above all, loyal. It was as though he instinctively understood what Randal was trying to achieve, which was a miracle in itself, since Randal wasn’t sure exactly what that was. For now, ridding himself of unnecessary baggage was his first priority.

  * * *

  ‘This is madness,’ Bertrand said.

  Randal looked over at him, standing there shitting his trews like an infant.

  ‘Show some fucking steel for once, will you?’ Randal replied. He looked at Hestan beside him, but if the boy understood the curse word he didn’t respond. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  ‘Will it?’ Bertrand asked. ‘Because I think it’s highly likely they’ll cut us to bits.’

  They were in the relic of an old church, far away from prying eyes. Randal had persuaded Bertrand to summon Duke Gothelm and he needed to conduct the meeting somewhere remote. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  ‘If you’ve done as I said there is nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Of course I’ve fucking done as you said,’ Bertrand snapped.

  Of that there was little doubt. If Bertrand was intimidated by Randal and what he could do, then he was downright terrified of the children and their gifts. Bertrand was a coward, but then that had worked out for Randal well enough. Cowards could be trusted as long as they were scared more of you than of anyone else. And Bertrand was more scared of these gifted children than he was of the gods themselves.