Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2)

by R. S. Ford

First she had to defeat Armadon.

  30

  CTENKA watched the Shengen legions mustering as he stood at the top of the Tinker’s Gate. They were bringing death with them now. There was no chance of clemency. No surrender. They would have to fight or die.

  When he looked over at Josten and Ermund he knew they had embraced the prospect of death. They showed no fear, they’d survived more battles than they could count and here they were again, ready to throw themselves at the enemy, despite the odds.

  Ctenka wasn’t that confident yet. He’d only killed one man, and that had been in a forest in a different country. After the way that had made him feel he didn’t value the prospect of killing anyone else, not that there was any chance of him slaying the enemy. The Shengens were a wall of armoured might. How would this band of rag-tag defenders ever defeat them?

  When Ctenka saw the woman, Silver, approaching, he felt a little spark of hope.

  There was something about her that unnerved him more than the Shengens, but then she seemed to unnerve everyone. All apart from Josten. He knew the woman of old, had travelled with her and fought with her. Beyond that Ctenka had no idea what was between them and he didn’t have the guts to pry.

  She surveyed the killing yard below. Bodies still rotted in the sun, neither side having the courage to claim their dead. Ctenka watched her from the corner of his eye, wondering what could be going on in that head of hers. An unseasonably cool breeze blew down the valley from the east, and she closed her eyes as it ruffled the dry, blonde hair on her head.

  ‘He is coming,’ she said.

  Ctenka looked out from the gate to the far end of the courtyard but could see nothing at first. He squinted across at the distant legions, silent and still as statues, until finally he saw movement. Ranks of men were turning aside in regimented order, making a corridor for someone to pass through. Eventually he spied a towering shape advancing, a rider on a mount, moving relentlessly past row upon row of legionaries.

  With wide eyes, Ctenka stared as the Iron Tusk approached the Tinker’s Gate. He rode on the back of a vast armoured bear, the beast appearing docile as it walked, but Ctenka could see the enormous power in its limbs as its claws churned up the sand, slaver dripping from jaws that could tear a man in half. But this beast was nothing in comparison to the warrior who rode upon its back. The Iron Tusk was a formidable being, head encased in a helm, single horn curling upwards. He was huge about the shoulders, the sinew of his arms standing out starkly in the sun. In his right hand he held a double-headed axe, in the left a sword wider than any blade Ctenka had ever laid eyes on.

  The Iron Tusk stopped in front of the gate, raising his arms wide, those impossibly heavy weapons seeming like wooden toys in his grip.

  ‘Defenders of the Cordral,’ he proclaimed, voice resonating from within his helm. ‘You have my admiration. You have fought valiantly, and for that I grant you mercy. Open your gates. Pledge yourselves to me and you will be spared. Continue to defy me and you will all die.’

  Ctenka could feel something radiating from the warlord as he spoke. All he wanted to do was rush down and push open the gates. To fall at this monster’s feet and beg for mercy. To pledge his loyalty and give over his very soul. He looked down and saw his hands were gripping the parapet tightly, knuckles white, fingernails almost breaking as he fought to resist.

  No one was brave enough to answer and Ctenka could see doubt falling across everyone else’s brow, as though a dark shadow of uncertainty had crossed them all, leeching their resolve in the face of this titan.

  Only one of them dared to defy him.

  ‘I see you, Armadon,’ Silver shouted down.

  The Iron Tusk slowly lowered his arms. A dry chuckle emanated from behind a helm that seemed to be bolted to his face.

  ‘So you have come to stop me? Even here,’ he said. ‘I thought I could feel you, slinking in the dark, stalking me like the spider you are.’

  ‘Will you face me? We can end this here,’ Silver said. Ctenka couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Of all the heroes that might defend the Cordral Extent, it appeared the only champion willing to step forward was this wild-looking woman from the desert.

  ‘How can I refuse?’ the Iron Tusk called.

  Silver turned and made her way down to the gate below. Josten and Ermund followed her, and despite his better judgement, Ctenka went with them. At the bottom, Vallion ordered his men to unbar the gate.

  As it opened, revealing the Iron Tusk awaiting her, Silver took a spear from one of the legionaries.

  ‘Don’t interfere,’ she said as she walked forward through the gate.

  Ctenka wanted to assure her there was no danger of that, but he kept his mouth shut.

  She walked out to stand before the Iron Tusk atop his mighty bear. Ctenka couldn’t help but notice how tiny she was in front of this behemoth. How was she ever going to defeat him? They’d been mad to allow her to go. But then, who was going to stop her?

  ‘We could rule this land side by side,’ said the Iron Tusk. ‘We could defeat that bitch Innellan and take this world for ourselves.’

  In answer, Silver hefted the spear, effortlessly bringing it to her shoulder and drawing it back. In one smooth motion she flung it directly at her target. The spearhead pierced the bear’s right eye, sinking in halfway up the shaft. The creature made no sound as it collapsed.

  The Iron Tusk rolled aside as the beast fell dead, and rose deftly to his feet. Silver was already running at him, her sword ringing free of its scabbard. The warlord managed to parry her first blow with his sword, swinging his axe to counter. She ducked, spinning aside, slashing in again and catching the Iron Tusk a glancing blow at the hip.

  Ctenka could hear him grunt in pain, the sound hollow from within that vast helm. Josten and Ermund had walked in front of the gate now, eager to watch, not wanting to miss a thing, and Ctenka went with them, barely comprehending that he was putting himself in harm’s way.

  The way they went at each other was a sight to behold. Ctenka had seen skilled combatants fighting before – had even been in the thick of it himself – but he’d never seen anything like this. The Iron Tusk was fast, too fast for his size. He should have been a lumbering brute, but he seemed to move with a wicked grace, swinging those mighty weapons like they weighed nothing. For her part, Silver dodged and sidestepped every blow, ducking low, dancing out of range, and for every miss from her opponent she struck in with a counter, jabbing and slicing at the huge warlord.

  Blood was flowing freely from him now, running in rivulets down his great barrel chest, soaking the armour on his legs. He howled in frustration, a terrifying bellow that rang throughout the fortress and made Ctenka want to flee. But he didn’t flee; he stood and watched as they went at one another.

  Silver leapt impossibly high over a devastating sweep of the Iron Tusk’s sword. Her blade flashed, cutting a rent in the warlord’s shoulder. He grunted again, dropping his axe to the ground and staggering back. He was mortally wounded, a cut that would have laid low the strongest warrior, but still he stood his ground, broadsword flashing in the sun. Silver ducked the blow, rolling along the ground, coming up to run him through the midriff.

  This time he faltered, falling to one knee, barely able to parry another flurry of strikes from Silver.

  Ctenka heard a shout from across the courtyard. The Shengens were rushing forward, seeing their warlord on his knees, determined that he would not be vanquished by this woman.

  Armoured warriors ran to aid their faltering leader. Shengen archers launched a volley of arrows that struck the ground around the combatants. Silver raised her blade for a final strike but an arrow impaled her shoulder. She stumbled back and Ctenka was already running. Josten and Ermund were by his side, Vallion also sprinting, shield at the ready.

  The Shengen warriors had reached the Iron Tusk now, half a dozen of them trying to drag him to safety, but he would not go, easily brushing two of them aside, determined to finish the fight. His men w
ere dogged in their determination, and yet more of them piled forward, grabbing the Iron Tusk, fighting against his enormous strength and dragging him bodily back to safety.

  Another volley of arrows flew across the courtyard, but Vallion was already there, planting his tower shield in front of Silver. Ctenka heard the arrows strike the steel, but he was already helping Silver to her feet. She barely seemed to notice the wound in her shoulder as the legionaries dragged the Iron Tusk back across the courtyard.

  More archers ran forward. Ctenka had to duck as he and the others retreated back towards the gate. Arrows peppered the ground all around him as they moved back behind their defensive wall. With a cry from Vallion the gate was slammed shut behind them. They could still hear the bellowing of the Iron Tusk echoing up through the mountains.

  Everyone was breathing heavily apart from Silver, who stood glaring at the gate, the arrow still impaled in her shoulder.

  ‘We need to get that out,’ Ctenka said, trying not to be sick.

  She looked down at the arrow as though she hadn’t noticed it. Then she snapped off the flight, reached behind and pulled the head from the back of her shoulder.

  ‘No, bastard!’

  Ctenka turned at the voice. It was Josten, crouched on the ground where Ermund lay in the dust, Vallion leaning over him. Ctenka could see the arrowhead protruding from Ermund’s chest and he ran forward, kneeling by his friend’s side. ‘Help him,’ he shouted. ‘Somebody help him.’

  Nobody came. It seemed obvious to everyone but Ctenka that Ermund could not be helped.

  ‘You have to save him.’ Ctenka looked up at Silver. There was something about her, anyone could see that. If anyone could save Ermund it was her. Instead, she just turned and walked away.

  Josten knelt beside them, looking down at Ermund and grasping his hand.

  ‘You can’t die. Not like this,’ he said through gritted teeth, biting back tears. It was the first real emotion Ctenka had seen from the man besides rage.

  ‘This…’ Ermund said, fighting the pain, ‘…is as good a way as any.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ Josten snarled. ‘You and me aren’t fucking done yet. Not by a damn sight.’

  Ermund smiled at that, a line of blood running from his mouth and down his cheek. ‘I forgive you, Josten Cade. I forgive you for all of it.’ He grabbed Josten’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘Now you just have to forgive yourself.’

  ‘No,’ said Josten, as though he could heal Ermund with his anger. ‘I said we’re not fucking done.’

  Ermund ignored him and turned to Ctenka. ‘Do one thing for me, lad,’ he whispered.

  ‘Anything,’ Ctenka replied. ‘Just name it.’

  ‘Don’t die here.’

  Ctenka was about to say he had no bloody intention of dying here, and he had no intention of letting Ermund die here either.

  But his friend had already gone.

  Josten stood and left Ctenka holding Ermund’s hand.

  It was a stupid fucking death. But then, weren’t they all?

  31

  HE was alive. No matter how much Laigon might have wanted death, he was still here. One of his eyes had swollen shut and he could barely see out of the other. His breath came in laboured wheezes, his nostrils filled with clotted blood. His jaw was most likely broken, his nose definitely.

  Though Laigon’s vision was impaired, he could still make out details of the command tent he was in. This was the Iron Tusk’s lair, he had visited it enough times to know. It was decorated simply, but then the Iron Tusk was a simple man. Cruel, ruthless, deadly, but still simple. Candles burned in their stands but by their light Laigon couldn’t see a bed. It was like the warlord never slept, always on the hunt, always eager to conquer.

  Laigon strained against his bonds, his hands tied behind him to the main prop post in the centre of the tent. It was useless, there would be no escape. No hope of redemption. No hope at all. All that was left for him was execution. If he was lucky it would be quick, but then luck had abandoned him of late.

  It seemed that for Laigon all that was left now was his faith. Before the coming of the new warlord, when he had been a true servant of the emperor, Laigon had worshipped the gods. Even after the Iron Tusk had conquered the Shengen Empire, Laigon had still secretly prayed. But what good had it done? The Shengen were defeated, now led by a usurper. Its faithful servants turned into little more than slaves. And here was Laigon, defiant, faithful to the old gods and the old ways, tied to a post waiting to die.

  Had the gods abandoned him? Was he to be left to die at the whim of a tyrant? Or perhaps… perhaps this was a test. Perhaps now more than ever Laigon would need his faith.

  He still had the metal figurine of Portius in his hand and he squeezed it, not wanting to let it go, comforted by the feel of it against his palm. It was all he had left. The only thing connecting him with the past. To those days of glorious righteousness. Laigon closed his one good eye, summoning up as much conviction as he could. He had never seen any evidence of the gods, never been offered a sign, never heard of a miracle performed. But still, if he prayed for salvation could it be granted?

  He never got the chance to even try. The side of the tent opened and Laigon looked up to find the hulking figure of the Iron Tusk enter. The warlord glared down, the one eye visible within that twisted helm burning into Laigon like a hot brand. He was wounded, blood covering his bare chest, arms and legs. Cuts marring almost every inch of his flesh.

  The Iron Tusk drew in breath after furious breath, that eye staring at Laigon all the while. At any moment Laigon expected him to reach forward with those huge hands and crush his skull. Instead the Iron Tusk stood there and bled.

  ‘You have defied me,’ he said at last. ‘You have all defied me and it will not stand. It cannot stand.’

  Laigon didn’t know if he could speak, even had he wanted to. His jaw ached, teeth feeling loose in his head.

  The Iron Tusk’s breathing became more regular and slowly he knelt beside Laigon, blood still running down his bare flesh. There was a stab wound in the warlord’s side that would have laid even the mightiest warrior low, but if Laigon had learned anything by now it was that the Iron Tusk was like no mortal man.

  ‘You must pledge yourself to me, Laigon Valdyr. You must worship me. You must become mine. Follow me, Laigon, and I will give you this world.’

  ‘Why don’t you just kill me?’ Laigon managed to say through broken lips. ‘Isn’t that why you brought me here?’

  The Iron Tusk murmured a laugh beneath his helmet, his shoulders shaking. ‘You were my greatest warrior. My greatest leader. My greatest failure. Do you think I would just abandon you? I need you, Laigon. If you follow me then they will all follow me. I need you to prove that I am to be revered. To dispel any doubt that I am the absolute ruler of the Shengen Empire. That my conquest is a righteous one.’

  Now it was Laigon’s turn to laugh, but doing so sent pain coursing through his jaw, into his head. ‘You are the tyrant of Shengen. You can slaughter us by our thousands but that doesn’t make you our ruler. Murder and enslavement will not give you men’s hearts.’

  ‘You cannot hope to fight me, Laigon. But you can fight for me. Lead my armies to victory.’

  Laigon met the Tusk’s eye, green and piercing. ‘You are losing. Finally you see that you’re not invincible. Well, I will not help you. You will have to kill me.’

  ‘No,’ said the Iron Tusk. ‘I will not have to kill you, because you will serve me. You will follow me and you will do it of your own free will.’

  The Iron Tusk stood, taking a step back from where Laigon was tied to the post. Someone else entered the tent. At first Laigon couldn’t see who it was. Then he felt panic tighten in his gut as he recognised his son.

  Petrachus stood silently, hand on the sword by his side. It looked far too big for the boy – a ridiculous ornament given to a child. Petrachus stared at Laigon, but it was as if his own son did not recognise him. But then Laigon’s face was swoll
en and bloodied. He imagined his own mother would have struggled to recognise him.

  ‘Your son has chosen to join me,’ said the Iron Tusk. ‘He has chosen to share in my glory. It’s only a matter of time before you do the same.’

  ‘He has chosen nothing,’ Laigon snapped. ‘You have bewitched him. Just like you have bewitched the rest of them.’

  ‘Bewitched? I have merely chosen to lead a weak nation to glory. I have bewitched no one.’

  ‘You are a usurper, and you will fall.’

  The Iron Tusk shook his vast helmed head. ‘No. I will rise and I will conquer. And you will be by my side. Petrachus, explain to your father.’

  The boy seemed to recognise Laigon for the first time. Where previously he had shown only contempt and treated him like a traitor, now he looked on him like a father.

  ‘It is true,’ the boy said. ‘All of it is true. I have been shown the way. Do not turn your back on us, father. We need you. We all need you.’

  Laigon stifled his tears. For an instant he thought he saw the Petrachus he knew, but his words spoke a different story.

  ‘Petrachus, this is not you,’ said Laigon. ‘You are no man’s slave. Think, son. Remember me. Remember your mother. The gods. This tyrant is not the one you should follow.’

  ‘He is with me,’ said the Iron Tusk, moving around the prop post. ‘Loyal. As you once were.’ Laigon could feel a pull at the bonds tying his wrists together. With the deft slice of a blade the Iron Tusk cut him free. ‘You should follow his example. The father taught by the son.’ The Iron Tusk stood in front of Laigon now, a blade in his hand; a cruel jagged knife designed for inflicting pain. He jammed that knife into the ground between Laigon’s legs, then he knelt, his hands behind his back. ‘But if you will not follow your son, if you will not join the men and women of your nation, then save them. End my life. Strike me down, Laigon Valdyr.’

  Laigon sensed treachery. This had to be some kind of trick. He knew the Iron Tusk was fast, despite his size, but maybe Laigon was faster. Maybe, despite what they had done to him, despite his injuries, he would be able to take that knife and end this madness.