Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2)

by R. S. Ford

  ‘This land?’ said Livia, raising her voice. ‘Am I dead? Am I in Hell?’

  The Hermit smiled, his teeth almost gleaming. ‘This place has many names to many people. Hell is as good as any, but this is not the afterlife, Livia. You’re not dead.’

  ‘So where am I?’

  ‘Lost between two worlds. The mortal realm, as you know it, and here. A plane ruled by the gods, as you might call them.’

  ‘The Archons,’ said Livia.

  ‘Very good,’ said the Hermit. ‘It seems your connection with Innellan is still strong. You hold much of her knowledge, as she holds much of yours.’

  With every one of her questions, more sprang up. ‘Who is Innellan?’

  ‘She is one of the Twelve… or the Thirteen if you’re picky. But perhaps I should start at the beginning. The Archons were born when your world was young—’

  ‘Wait,’ said Livia. ‘Is this going to be a history lesson?’

  ‘If that makes it easier for you,’ said the Hermit. ‘May I carry on?’ When she nodded, he continued. ‘The gods were born in your world, summoned by the first priests. They grew in power as the centuries passed, gleaning their strength from the worship of mortals and in return bestowing the power you know as magic upon those they deemed worthy. But the gods are a jealous breed, and they coveted their worship like misers, each one seeking more and more mortals to raise their voices in praise. War was inevitable – a conflict that almost destroyed your world. Some of the gods saw where they were heading, predicting the conflict would ultimately end in their mutual destruction. And so they came to an accord. The Archons would banish themselves to an alternate plane, an alternate realm of existence they could neither control nor destroy. This realm.’

  Livia shook her head. ‘But how am I here? How did I—’

  The Hermit raised a finger and smiled. ‘In good time. Despite their self-imposed exile the gods still yearned to be worshipped, and so they needed a conduit between the worlds. One that would allow them to glean power from mortals and in turn reward them for their benefaction. For that they created the Heartstone – an artefact of supreme power that would act as a channel between worlds. All seemed well for a time, and the realm of mortals was safe, but for one thing… the Heartstone could also allow the gods to travel between worlds. To inhabit the body of a mortal avatar and become more powerful still.’

  ‘Then, that is what…’

  ‘Yes. A hundred years ago, by the reckoning of your world, the Archon Siff split the Heartstone asunder so that the gods could no longer meddle in the affairs of mortals. All twelve Archons agreed that it should remain broken, placing it atop the Blue Tower and pledging a cohort of their own followers to guard it. But Innellan tricked the Archon Durius into repairing the artefact, once more opening a pathway between worlds.’

  ‘The Blue Tower.’ Livia thought back to the dreams she had of a terrible battle. Thousands slain on an open field, their lives wasted. ‘I have seen it.’

  ‘Thinking that Durius had repaired the Heartstone and would use it for his own ends, Siff, Innellan and Armadon slaughtered the armies guarding the Blue Tower and raced to stop him. When they reached the summit…’

  ‘Siff realised she had been betrayed.’ Livia remembered now as though she had witnessed it with her own eyes.

  A noise from the back of the cottage made Livia start. Hera appeared from the adjoining room. With her was a man, hugely muscled, his face handsome but marred by a troubled frown.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Hermit, standing. ‘You’ve met Hera. And this is Mandrake.’ The man stared back at the Hermit as though he didn’t recognise his own name.

  Realisation dawned on Livia. ‘They’re… like me,’ she said. ‘Lost in this world.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the Hermit replied. ‘Souls from the mortal realm.’

  ‘But why is he…’

  ‘Ah yes. That is an unfortunate side effect of Armadon’s possession. The Archon of War ripped his host’s soul from his body. Forcing himself upon unfortunate Mandrake here. The result is… tragic. As you can see.’

  ‘But why did Innellan not do the same to me?’ Livia asked.

  The Hermit walked towards Hera and Mandrake, laying a comforting hand on the huge warrior’s arm.

  ‘Hera and Mandrake were offered as sacrifices. The rites performed and worship offered by the Set of Katamaru’s Faithful meant they were like fresh shells to be prised open. Armadon chose to rip Mandrake’s soul free and cast it aside, whereas Siff lived within her host for many weeks. When eventually Siff took control, Hera’s soul was already halfway across the realms and she managed to hold onto her sanity.’

  ‘And me?’

  The Hermit looked at Livia, a strange sadness in his eyes. ‘Innellan chose you as her avatar because of the raw power your mortal form possesses. But after inhabiting her host even she was not powerful enough to simply tear your soul free. So she waited until the time was right. Until you—’

  ‘Until I killed the boy.’ Livia remembered tearing out the Blood Regent’s throat with her teeth and she felt suddenly light-headed.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Hermit. ‘I’m afraid once a host has tasted the blood of a mortal, has taken a life with their own hands, then there is nothing they can do to halt the possession.’

  Livia was surprised at how much of this made sense. It should have been confusing, but she understood every word the Hermit had told her. Only one question remained.

  ‘How do we get back home?’

  Livia stared at the Hermit but he looked away, eyes gleaming in the firelight, before he shook his head.

  ‘There is no way back,’ said Hera. ‘Is there?’ She looked at the Hermit, who remained silent.

  Livia could not accept that. ‘Well? Is there?’ she said.

  ‘It has never been done before,’ he said.

  ‘That doesn’t mean it can’t be done,’ she said.

  The Hermit considered her, and then showed that gleaming white smile. ‘I see now why she chose you. But it would be impossible.’

  ‘Impossible?’ Livia said. ‘This whole place is impossible. Since I’ve arrived I’ve been chased through portals, some lizard men tried to eat my soul and I’ve been threatened by a warrior king with a burning crown for a head.’

  ‘Ah, Ekemon. He always did have a penchant for theatrics.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit who he was. What I want is to go to the Blue Tower. If the Archons can make their way through it to the mortal realm then maybe that’s how we get home.’

  The Hermit thought on her suggestion. ‘Perhaps it could be done, but—’

  ‘No buts,’ said Livia. ‘We have to try, and you have to help. Otherwise why save me in the first place?’

  ‘Well I—’

  ‘No, really? Why did you save me?’

  Hera stepped forward. ‘He saved all of us. He is the Hermit. That’s what he does.’

  Livia shrugged. ‘Well thanks, that explains absolutely nothing. Either way… we’re going. All of us.’

  The Hermit shook his head in exasperation. ‘I suppose I had nothing else planned.’

  Livia felt herself for the first time in a long time.

  ‘Just what I wanted to hear.’

  20

  The Cordral Extent, 106 years after the Fall

  EYMAN sat opposite Laigon at the small table, mulling over his next move on the board. Their game of khetzak had gone on for two days now and Laigon had to admit he was growing bored. Before he came to Dunrun he had never played, but there were other games of strategy he was familiar with. Khetzak was much the same, only more rudimentary. It hadn’t taken Laigon long to master the tactics and his early losses to Eyman soon became fake losses. It was best if he let the young militiaman think he had the more cunning mind. At least for now.

  Eyman placed his hand on a thick piece carved in black onyx – the Shieldman, used to block sections of the board – but he let go without moving it.

  ‘You’re getting better at t
his,’ he said, running fingers across his wispy excuse for a beard.

  Laigon wanted to tell Eyman he could have ended the game six moves ago, but he held his tongue. Beating the militiaman at khetzak would be a hollow victory. Better he win the man’s trust. Laigon was confident he was almost there.

  ‘So tell me of the women in Shengen,’ Eyman said, placing the Shieldman down in a predictable position.

  Laigon suppressed a smile at the question. He could understand Eyman’s frustration, stuck in a compound miles from any civilised company, with no one but other men for company.

  ‘Strong,’ he replied. There was no use coating it in honey. ‘Disciplined. Honourable.’

  It clearly wasn’t the answer Eyman had been hoping for. ‘Beautiful?’ he asked.

  ‘In their way,’ said Laigon, suddenly thinking of Verrana and how much he missed her smile. It was a thought he put out of his head as soon as it arrived.

  ‘The women of the Cordral are the most beautiful in all the world. Well, most of them anyway. My sister is the exception, but then her brother got all the looks.’

  Eyman smiled as though he were only half joking.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Laigon replied, feeling guilty that he was here, playing games and chatting idly, while the rest of his men were locked away in chains. But it was necessary. If he could gain the trust of the Cordral militia he might ensure those chains did not stay on for much longer.

  He turned his attention back to the board, considering his next move, when the door to the chamber opened. Marshal Ziyadin entered, looking more hot and flustered than usual. Slick rivulets of sweat ran from his dark greasy hair and he licked his lips nervously.

  ‘Centurion Valdyr,’ he said. ‘I require your attendance.’

  Laigon rose dutifully, and followed the marshal out into the warm morning air. Ziyadin walked brusquely. Laigon had never known the man move so fast and he could only imagine what had spurred him into such exertions.

  They made their way through the gates of Dunrun. As he had done the first time he walked through each of them, Laigon noted how strong they were. How in the past, any army would have struggled to overcome such defences. As they neared the final gate, Laigon began to realise what had caused the marshal such concern.

  Militiamen ran around in a panic. Someone shouted for a bow and was told in no uncertain terms where to go. As Laigon neared the foot of the final gate he saw a young boy weeping.

  ‘They are here,’ he said to Ziyadin.

  The marshal glanced at the boy, then back to the wall ahead, walking with as much determination as he could muster. Laigon wasn’t fooled. He could sense the marshal’s fear. He could spot a coward from a mile away. It wasn’t for nothing that Ziyadin had been given this commission in the back end of nowhere. Clearly his shortcomings as an officer had caught up with him.

  Laigon took the stairs with vigour. As he made it to the top of the gate he was greeted by a familiar sight. Ranks of armoured legionaries lined the Skull Road for as far as he could see. They stood to attention, shields raised. It was a pose struck to intimidate – a wall of steel that had seen the enemies of the Shengen surrender at the very sight of it. Laigon knew it well, but had never faced it from this side before. Now he understood.

  Ziyadin finally came to stand beside him at the parapet, breathing heavily from the exertion. Laigon could see the marshal was terrified but what could he expect; it was rare that any man in the west had seen the might of the Shengen army arrayed before him.

  ‘What do we do?’ Ziyadin asked.

  Laigon looked down at the rows of shields. He knew the only sane option was to surrender. No matter how high these walls, they would not hold back the might of the Standings. Surrender was no option though. They had to fight.

  Before he could answer, a gap appeared in the wall of shields and a single warrior strode out, carrying his helm in the crook of his arm. By his armour, Laigon could see he was a praetorian, but from this distance he couldn’t tell which one.

  ‘They’re coming,’ said Ziyadin, white-knuckled hands gripping the parapet. ‘Should we let them in? Should I have my archers fire on him?’

  ‘Wait,’ Laigon replied. ‘It would be foolish to kill the messenger before hearing what he has to say.’

  The warrior came to stand within the shadow of the gate, looking up at the militiamen.

  ‘Citizens of the Cordral,’ he exclaimed, his voice echoing in the silent valley. ‘I am Praetorian Kyon of the Shengen Imperial Guard. The Iron Tusk sends his greetings and requests that you allow us to pass peacefully.’

  Kyon. It wasn’t a name Laigon recognised, but if he was anything like Manse then he would be as ruthless and uncompromising as any of the Iron Tusk’s followers.

  Ziyadin looked to Laigon for any notion of what to do. He was desperate, that much was clear.

  ‘If you open the gate we’re all dead,’ Laigon said to him. ‘They are not here to parlay. They are here to destroy and conquer.’

  Ziyadin nodded, and Laigon was surprised when the man took a breath, puffing himself up into some semblance of the military man he professed to be.

  ‘I am Ziyadin of the Great Eastern Militia. Marshal of the fortress of Dunrun. Loyal to Queen Suraan of Kantor and protector of the Cordral Extent. We are…’ He faltered, running out of bluster once the honorifics were done with.

  ‘Marshal Ziyadin,’ said Kyon. ‘As you can see, the Shengen army has come to your door. I suggest you open the gate and allow us to pass.’

  Ziyadin looked out onto the ranks of men, on the pennants of the five Standings flying proudly among the glinting armour, at the impenetrable wall of shields. Then he looked at Laigon. He was a man dragged beneath the waves by the weight of his responsibilities, but without the ability to swim. Laigon had seen enough.

  ‘Praetorian Kyon,’ Laigon announced, standing as tall as he could so that all the armies of his homeland could see him. ‘The answer is no. The gateway to the Cordral is closed to you. Take your army and return home.’

  Kyon raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘Is that Laigon Valdyr?’ he said.

  ‘I am Centurion Laigon Valdyr of the Fourth Standing.’

  Kyon shook his head. ‘You are Laigon Valdyr, nothing more than a deserter. Marshal Ziyadin, I suggest you throw this traitor from your walls and open the gate. It would be a shame if we had to knock them down.’

  Laigon said nothing as Ziyadin stared down at the praetorian. He could only hope the marshal wasn’t quite the coward he appeared.

  ‘On behalf of Queen Suraan, I respectfully decline your request,’ said Ziyadin.

  Kyon shook his head. ‘I will grant you time to reconsider, Marshal. But do it quickly. The Iron Tusk is not a patient man.’

  With that he turned and strolled back towards the implacable shield wall.

  ‘You’ve made the right decision,’ said Laigon.

  ‘Have I?’ Ziyadin replied. ‘I have barely fifty men manning this garrison. They have an army of thousands. If reinforcements don’t arrive soon we’re all dead.’

  ‘I can give you reinforcements, Marshal. All you need do is release them.’

  ‘You have forty-one men. What can I do with forty-one men?’

  Laigon leaned in close. ‘It’s not what you can do, Marshal. It’s what I can do.’

  Ziyadin shook his head. ‘I don’t know if I can even trust you.’

  ‘If I’d wanted to open the way for the armies of the Shengen Empire I would have already persuaded you, Marshal. You must bar the way. And I will pledge my life, and the lives of my men, to ensure that happens.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like I have much choice then, does it?’

  Marshal Ziyadin made his way down from the top of the gate and Laigon followed him, at any moment expecting him to fall and break something. Once Ziyadin had struggled to the bottom he started barking orders. Perhaps he had misjudged the man after all.

  The last order was for Laigon’s legionaries to be freed. />
  ‘You have my thanks,’ said Laigon, quietly.

  Ziyadin offered a cursory nod. His only choice was to trust Laigon. Open the gate to the Shengen and they would most likely be slaughtered. Defend it alone and the odds weren’t much better. At least with trained men at his side, Ziyadin could make a show of defending the Cordral from the entire Shengen Empire.

  As Laigon waited for his men to be freed, he noticed a half-painted wall within the confines of the first courtyard. A thought came to him as he regarded the forgotten scaffold and the discarded buckets of red limewash. Picking up two of the buckets he went to meet his legionaries.

  Vallion was the first to appear, squinting in the light as the militiamen held open the doors to his makeshift cell.

  ‘Centurion,’ he said with a nod of greeting.

  ‘Have the men form rank,’ Laigon replied, placing the buckets down.

  Vallion obeyed, and in no time Laigon’s forty-one legionaries had ordered themselves into four rows.

  ‘You have all endured much,’ Laigon began. ‘You have followed me along the Skull Road, turning your backs on your homeland. Your brothers. Your families. Well, I would ask more of you, if you are willing to give it. Every Standing in the Shengen now waits beyond the gates of this fortress. They wish to rape this land at the behest of a tyrant. I would ask any of you still loyal to Emperor Demetrii to stand beside me. To stop them. Any man who wishes to leave may do so without reproach.’

  He waited. Not a single man moved or made a sound.

  ‘We are legionaries of the Shengen no longer,’ Laigon continued. ‘Our homeland is lost. We are the red hand of Demetrii’s vengeance.’ He picked up a brush from the bucket of red limewash. ‘And we will show our colours to prove who we are. Who is with me? Who will join me in the Red Standing?’

  Forty-one voices yelled as one, shouting, ‘The Red Standing!’ as every man raised his fist in unison.

  21

  The Suderfeld, 106 years after the Fall

  CTENKA no longer appreciated the lush Suderfeld countryside as they made their way back north. He couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it, knowing they had failed in their mission. There had been a promise of troops from Kantor, but the All-Mother knew how many. It may well have been half a dozen old men, as far he knew. As for Northold, that had been more than a waste. It had been a disaster. No troops, but instead they had two children to take care of. So much for he and Ermund bringing back an army to defend Dunrun.