Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2)

by R. S. Ford

  The sound of horses’ hooves stomping up the muddy path heralded the truth of Bertrand’s words. Randal felt his heart beat a little faster at the prospect of what was to come.

  There were six of them, each wearing a thick riding cloak, but Randal could still spot Gothelm’s bulky frame. When they reached the church the duke threw back his hood, revealing that permanent scowl. His men jumped down from their horses, one of them helping Gothelm heave his ample girth from the saddle.

  ‘Bertrand?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve made my away across hill and dale in this infernal shit storm, this had better be worth my while.’

  Randal walked out into the open air, Hestan close at his side. Gothelm squinted through the drizzle.

  ‘Weirwulf? What in Osred’s name are you doing here? Where’s Bertrand?’

  Randal could hear Bertrand shuffling in the church behind him, but it was obvious he had no intention of showing himself.

  ‘My lord,’ Randal said. ‘I apologise for the inconvenience, but it was important we meet… in private.’

  ‘What are you bloody talking about, Randal? What is going on?’

  Randal looked down at Hestan, who glanced up with that look of bewildered innocence he always bore.

  ‘Remember what we talked about,’ Randal said, placing a gentle hand on the stubble of Hestan’s head.

  The boy nodded, taking a step forward as Gothelm advanced.

  ‘I’m warning you, Weirwulf. If this is some kind of lark I’ll—’

  One of Gothelm’s guards pulled a knife and shoved it into the duke’s ribs. Gothelm staggered, unsure of what had just happened, as the armoured knight twisted the blade, grinding the flesh to mincemeat.

  Gothelm staggered and fell. One of his other guards shouted in alarm, drawing steel. The one with the knife ran at his fellow and was met with a crashing blow to the skull that floored him.

  On the ground, Gothelm was yelling blue murder, hand desperately trying to staunch the gaping wound in his side. As one, every guard had a sword drawn and they went at each other with abandon. One of them screamed, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ as he was gutted by someone who had moments ago been a friend and ally. Two others fought viciously, rolling around in the mud, beating one another with mailed fists until their faces were bloody pulp.

  Randal watched as they went about it. Men killing one another was nothing new to him but he’d never seen anything so brutal. Not even in the Ramadi fortress of Kessel had the warriors attacked one another with such deadly zeal.

  In moments it was over. Four men lay dead. One guard was clawing his way across the ground towards Gothelm, his mouth open in a toothy grin, eyes glazed and focused on the duke.

  Randal had seen enough.

  He drew his blade and walked through the mud and bodies, planting his sword in the guard’s back and skewering him to the ground. Then he turned to Gothelm.

  ‘This is you,’ said Gothelm, blood spewing from his mouth, body and hands slick with red as he vainly tried to staunch his wound.

  ‘Not all me,’ Randal replied. He knelt down beside Gothelm, taking a strange pleasure in watching him die. ‘Just mostly.’

  If Gothelm had wanted to spout some last curse he wasn’t able, as his eyes rolled back and he slumped in the mud.

  Randal took a step back, glancing to Hestan, who returned the look with no emotion. A spatter of blood had flown in the melee and hit the boy in the face but he hadn’t seemed to notice.

  ‘Fuck,’ whispered Bertrand, choosing now to finally show himself. ‘Fuck this. Fuck this.’ He stared at the carnage with wide eyes.

  ‘Keep your wits about you, man. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a dead body before.’

  Bertrand looked up at Randal and shook his head.

  ‘That’s it. I’m out of this. I can’t—’

  ‘You can and you will,’ Randal replied, holding his gaze, unblinking, unwavering. ‘I need you now more than ever. Gothelm is out of the way. The duchy is left without a duke. Who better than…?’ He smiled at Bertrand as though he’d just offered a casket of gold.

  ‘But I can’t—’

  ‘If you say those words to me one more time Hestan will force you to pluck out one of your own eyes and eat it.’

  Bertrand looked down at the child as though he were a viper about to strike. He seemed to physically diminish, conceding defeat.

  ‘So what now?’ he asked.

  ‘Now we proceed as planned,’ Randal replied. ‘And move on to bigger fish.’

  ‘You can’t be serious about this.’

  Randal let out a sigh as he realised Bertrand still wasn’t able to appreciate the level of ambition at play here.

  ‘Hestan.’ He looked down at the boy, all innocence. ‘Show Bertrand how serious we are.’

  * * *

  The weather had brightened. Northold was almost a pleasant place to be when the sun was shining.

  Randal and Hestan sat in a garden on the outskirts of the city, away from the shit smell of the streets. The birds tweeted incessantly, the sound of them rising above the distant noise of street traders. Randal could understand their irritation. He was as impatient for this to be done as they were.

  At one end of the garden, Bertrand came running. He had become so much more compliant in recent days, but then the eyepatch he now wore over the socket of his right eye served as a constant reminder that obedience was not a choice.

  ‘She’s coming,’ he said.

  Randal raised a smile at Bertrand’s subservient nature. It made a pleasant change from his previous haughty attitude.

  Queen Selene’s entrance was heralded by a column of stout bodyguards, armour polished and shining in the sun, halberds pointing proudly to the sky. They formed a rank in front of Randal before making an opening for her to step through.

  Randal had to admit, Selene was everything he’d heard of and more. A rare beauty in this grim city. It almost made him wish he more enjoyed the company of the opposite sex, but that had never been Randal’s preference.

  She regarded him closely, weighing him up. Bertrand had done a good job of piquing her curiosity and for that Randal could only be grateful.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, standing and bowing just enough to look respectful, not quite enough to seem fawning.

  ‘Duke Bertrand tells me you have important business with the crown,’ she replied. ‘I must say, I’ve never seen him quite so animated in his enthusiasm.’

  Randal couldn’t stifle a smile at that one.

  ‘Because he knows the importance of this meeting, my lady,’ he said. Hestan had come to stand at his side now and Randal rested a hand on the boy’s head.

  ‘And what is so important that you would have us meet in this quiet place and not in the palace?’

  ‘Well,’ said Randal. ‘I have a proposition… one that could see an end to the War of Three Crowns.’

  Selene raised an eyebrow and Randal felt a twitch of excitement.

  ‘Really?’ she replied. ‘Then you had best tell me all about it.’

  III

  RANDAL had to admit, those children had made him pious. In the past he’d given no more or less credence to the gods than any other man. He knew the gods’ names, he knew their stories and their constellations, and occasionally when he passed a church or temple he would offer a prayer, but he would never have described himself as devout.

  After several weeks of looking after the children in his care and observing their daily rituals, he found himself making the sign of the Maiden before he slept, or saying a quick prayer of thanks to the wolf god Vadir at repast.

  It was obvious now where the children had gained their powers from, and though Randal knew he would never receive the same benefaction, he observed the gods just as devoutly as they did. He came to see himself as their high priest, ensuring that they followed every rite and ritual, and said every new prayer as keenly as the last.

  Randal had hunted down every tome, codex and scroll written on the Crown Sorcer
ers of old, and pored over every last word. Those texts said little of the connection between a sorcerer’s powers and the act of prayer, but Randal could easily read it between the lines.

  Some of those ancient mages were deeply spiritual, while others seemed to actively shirk the worship of the gods, even hold it in disdain. But the one thing they all held in common was the fact that they were revered. Though the Crown Sorcerers worked in service to one monarch or another, it was they who were held in awe, not the ancient kings. It was they who were feared and exalted in equal measure. That adoration was channelled to a higher power, and in return they were granted gifts beyond those any mortal should have been bestowed with.

  The more Randal read, the more he understood. What he had witnessed in the Ramadi – the god Innellan, her inhuman power – it all had to be linked. The gods had returned, and in exchange for worship they would grant divine powers. Randal realised if he could harness that power before anyone else he would be more influential than any Crown Sorcerer who had ruled the Suderfeld from the shadows of a king’s throne.

  And so harness it he would.

  * * *

  Randal watched Selene from a dark alcove within the palace of Northold. He had to admire her charm as she spoke to Clydus. The man had arrived with an entire cohort of warriors. Perhaps overcautious of him, but the old rat hadn’t lived so long by being reckless. Nevertheless, no number of armoured men could protect him now.

  Clydus laughed at something she said; whether it was a joke or a proposition of alliance, Randal couldn’t quite hear. Either way it didn’t matter. Any offers of a truce made by the queen of Canbria were merely a ruse. Honeyed words to put Clydus at ease before Randal made the final coup de grace.

  As they walked through the vast and ancient hall of Northold, surrounded by Clydus’ guard, Randal had just about seen enough. Placing his hand on Hestan’s head he stepped into the light shed through one of the many stained glass windows that lined the huge room. The guards surrounding Clydus spotted him immediately, hands moving to weapons. To his credit, Clydus seemed unperturbed, but who would not be, surrounded as he was by such a formidable guard?

  ‘Ah, Randal,’ Selene said, sensing the sudden tension. ‘Clydus, please allow me to introduce—’

  ‘That’s enough, I think,’ Randal interrupted. ‘You may leave us now.’

  Selene glared at him. He had undermined her authority on numerous occasions but never in front of such a prominent guest. Randal could tell the wound to her pride would never heal, but what could she do against him? He had already shown her that resistance was pointless.

  Her fear won over her pride, and Selene turned and slowly walked away, leaving Clydus looking confused.

  ‘It appears I am missing something?’ asked King Ozric’s consul. Randal admired his shrewdness. Hopefully this was a man who could be bargained with.

  ‘Not for long,’ Randal replied with a grin. ‘You see, I’m relying on the fact that we both know about crowns and kings, Clydus. We both know there is always a figurehead, a monarch of the people. And then there are those who play the instruments of politics. Those who make that monarch dance to a dainty tune. I know who makes Ozric dance.’ Randal looked directly into the consul’s eyes. The side of Clydus’ mouth turned up into a smile. The man knew he was found out, but he didn’t care. No matter. ‘Stellan also loves his music. I play the tunes in this palace.’

  ‘And there was me thinking the songstress was Queen Selene,’ Clydus said.

  ‘Modesty prevents me,’ Randal replied.

  ‘I’m sure it does. So why am I suddenly so honoured? I would have thought a man in your position would covet his anonymity.’

  ‘Some things must be done in person. And proposing an alliance is a tricky subject I would never presume to leave to an underling.’

  ‘Queen Selene, an underling? My, you are a bold one. So what would be the nature of this alliance?’

  ‘The War of Three Crowns has gone on for long enough. Stellan is the clear candidate to wear the crown of Suderfeld. You will persuade Ozric of the sense in this.’

  Clydus cackled a dry and grim laugh that echoed in the open hall. He was the only one who found it funny.

  ‘You’re a fool if you think I’m about to give up so easily. I control Eldreth. Ozric dances to my tune and when he wins the War of Three Crowns so will the Suderfeld. You were a fool to reveal yourself, Randal. And fools rarely last long in times of war.’

  The consul clicked his fingers. A dozen swords were drawn.

  Randal calmly placed his hand on Hestan’s head, drumming his fingers across that shaven pate. Immediately every one of Clydus’ warriors sheathed his sword, turned around and walked away to the edge of the room as though they had been scolded by their mother.

  Clydus glared at them, then at the boy.

  It was Randal’s turn to smile. ‘Alone at last.’

  ‘What is this?’ Clydus was trying to appear calm but his voice was taut.

  ‘This is the birth of a new era,’ Randal replied. ‘The birth of a new power. One I hold in the palm of my hand.’ He ruffled the stubble atop Hestan’s head.

  ‘So what do you want?’ asked Clydus. ‘To kill me? To wrest control of the crown for yourself?’

  ‘Nothing so crude. I merely want peace. What form that takes is up to you. King Banedon has already been brought into the fold and made to understand the way of things. Your task is now to persuade King Ozric of the same.’

  ‘Surrender? You think I can make Ozric kneel before Stellan’s throne? What am I to do? Tell him I have seen some parlour trick and he should fear a child with… magic? You have overestimated my influence.’

  ‘Come now. We both know that’s not true. You have more influence in Eldreth than any man alive. And fear a child? You think this is my only weapon? Clydus, don’t force me to give a further demonstration of the power I wield.’

  ‘I– It’s just…’ Clydus was defeated. Randal could see him trying to work out a way to get out of this. He was wondering if it really was a parlour trick. Trying to come up with some rational explanation for his loyal guard to leave him so exposed. Eventually he accepted there was none.

  ‘Banedon is already making preparations to offer his daughter’s hand to Stellan’s eldest son,’ said Randal. ‘But a decision has not been made yet. There is still a chance that Ozric’s heir could sit on the throne of a united Suderfeld. He must be persuaded.’

  ‘I will try, but there is no guarantee Ozric will listen. He is determined to be the victor in this war.’

  ‘Then I suggest you try very hard, Clydus.’

  The two men stood in silence for an uncomfortable moment, but Randal had said all he needed to say.

  Clydus nodded politely and turned to leave. Randal took a certain satisfaction from that nod. It was a small gesture but it shouted his victory as loud as any battle cry.

  One by one, Clydus’ guards seemed to come to, looking around in a daze before they followed the consul from the great hall.

  When they had left, Selene walked back into the light. Of course she had lurked in the shadows, listening in like some trespasser. Randal could hardly blame her for that. In her position he would have done the same.

  ‘This is too much of a risk,’ she said.

  There it was. Her nerve was giving out, and Randal could understand her fears – she had gone from possessing all the cards to holding nothing but a worthless hand.

  ‘Fear not, milady. Clydus will do his part. And if not…’

  Randal didn’t have to elucidate on what he and his wards were capable of. He had already given ample demonstration.

  ‘I just—’

  ‘You just need to do as you’re told. Keep the king occupied. That is your job. I hear he’s become quite the drunken sot in recent weeks, so it shouldn’t be all that difficult for you. Just keep that cup of his filled.’

  Anger flashed in Selene’s eyes. ‘You see that as my job, do you? To be serving wench to that id
iot? I’m worth more than that. Why don’t you just bewitch him? Have your little demons—’

  ‘Careful,’ said Randal, placing a protective arm around Hestan. ‘You wouldn’t want to upset them.’

  She glanced down at the boy as though he were a serpent in Randal’s arms, before all defiance leaked away. ‘I will do my part,’ she said, leaving the chamber as fast as she could.

  * * *

  When Randal fell asleep that night the air had been still, the sky becalmed. As he woke from a troubled slumber, he could hear a storm had whipped up beyond the walls of the temple. It took some moments, as he overcame the fug of sleep, to realise it was not just inclement weather that was raging outside his chamber.

  A bang at his door and he was roused fully. Randal stood, pulling on his tunic and opening the door to see Forgrim standing there. His face was troubled; Randal had never seen the stoic tallyman look so worried.

  ‘Milord,’ he said, an affectation his men used that Randal hadn’t seen fit to dissuade them from. ‘You must come quickly.’

  Forgrim led the way through the temple. As he made his way down the corridor Randal could hear the sound of raging and banging as though an army were trying to batter its way into the building, screaming and shouting as they came. It took some moments for him to realise it was no adult voice, but a child’s.

  ‘Is that Olivar? What has happened? Why is he so distressed?’

  Forgrim shook his head. ‘I don’t know, milord, but it’s not Olivar that’s the problem.’

  Randal found that hard to believe, the way the boy was smashing against his cage like a wild beast, but he followed Forgrim as he led the way to where the rest of the children slept.

  His tallyman motioned to the door, the fear plain in his eyes. Forgrim would go no further.

  Randal opened the door to the dormitory. Candles flickered in the room, casting peculiar shapes on the walls. The four children knelt in the centre of the room facing each other, hands gripped together so they formed a tight ring. Their heads were cast back to the ceiling, eyes blank white, lips moving in a silent incantation.