Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2) Page 4

  Vek didn’t answer that, just waved Josten and Lonik behind him as he ran on through the port. They made their way through the muddy streets, the sound of the rain lashing down masking their footfalls as they went. Soon they were almost at the edge of town, but the place had burst into life after the attack at the harbour. There were voices raised, bells jangling, dogs barking.

  Down the street, their exit was blocked – the gate leading out of town was manned by armed men. The three of them paused in the shadow of the town walls, watching.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Lonik.

  ‘We need a diversion,’ said Vek.

  ‘Like what?’

  Vek looked at Josten then at Lonik. ‘Like someone makes a lot of noise and draws those guards away.’

  ‘But who—’

  Before he could finish his sentence, Vek had drawn a knife across the back of Lonik’s leg. The boy screamed, and Josten grabbed Vek by the throat, other hand on his wrist holding the knife away.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Josten growled, ready to throttle the bastard where he stood.

  Vek’s eyes bore that tinge of madness again. ‘We need to go, now,’ he said.

  Josten glanced towards the gate. Lonik’s cries were drawing the guards right to them. He looked down at the boy, who was grasping his leg, screaming in pain. There was no escape for him now, and if they hung around there would be no escape for any of them. Just the noose.

  As the guards made their way closer to Lonik’s screams, Josten and Vek slipped away into the shadows, moving around the edge of the wall towards the gates. By the time they got there the way was clear, and as Josten listened to Lonik’s mournful cries behind them, he and Vek crept off into the night.

  They ran until they left the noise of Ferraby far behind them, but still Josten could hear Lonik’s cries echoing in his head. That boy’s screaming brought back the long journey north. Brought back his failure to save Livia. He’d abandoned her too – what was left of her. Left that girl to the desert, just like he’d left Lonik to the guards of Ferraby.

  Josten and Vek eventually reached the edge of a wood, where they paused for air. Vek was breathing hard but he still had a smile on his face.

  ‘Close one,’ he said. ‘They almost had us.’

  Josten didn’t reply, still thinking on what had just happened. Mad Vek they called him, but it was clear he wasn’t mad at all. Just another bastard willing to abandon his own men to get what he wanted.

  Vek looked back towards Ferraby. ‘They’ll be coming after us. This is your country, Cade. Which way do you think we should go?’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll make any difference,’ Josten replied. He’d already slipped his knife from his belt.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Vek.

  Josten plunged the knife straight into Vek’s gut, twisting it, slicing it, shoving it in as far as it would go. He grabbed Vek beneath the jaw, moving his head until they were staring into each other’s mad eyes.

  ‘Because everyone gets what they deserve,’ he growled.

  Vek stared until his accusatory look glazed and he slid to the ground.

  Josten left the body next to the wood, striking out on his bare feet. He’d have to see how far he got. A part of him hoped it wasn’t far.

  6

  RUNNING. Always running. She didn’t want to stop but she knew she had to. The landscape flashed by in a haze of forest and hills, blurring into one until eventually she found herself in a field. All about her was green. All above her was blue and the fresh crispness of the air filled her nostrils. It was a welcome change from the stink of battle and death.

  She laid a hand to her breast, feeling the fluttering of her heart against the thin cavity of her chest. Her flesh felt paper thin, her heart threatening to beat its way through her fragile ribcage.

  The hag took a moment to compose herself. Closing her eyes, she listened to the steady thrumming within, the blood pumping in her ears, coursing through her veins. The fear had subsided somewhat, but still she felt the echo of it within her. She remembered those baleful eyes, the burning king staring into her soul.

  Reality was beginning to coalesce. Where before this had all seemed like some dream, now the reality of it had hit her. As though waking from a nightmare she tried to breathe deep and even, tried to take solace in the solidity of the real world. But this was no real world. This was something other; something wicked and twisted.

  She heard a distant noise… a cawing in the air. She opened her eyes to see a bird, distant, wheeling and spinning in the clear sky. It pitched and swooped, dancing in the air until it was joined by a second bird, then a third. Three eagles, pivoting around one another, calling out, singing their screeching song.

  Their aeriform dance caused the harsh memory of the battle she had fled to fade. She watched them for as long as she could before the brightness of the sun began to sting her eyes. When she closed them against the glare, something struck her, sharp and stark. She was being propelled, as though falling into a bottomless well, her stomach lurching all the while.

  Until she came to a sudden stop.

  She was a young woman. Flush with the bloom of youth, she ran in fields; the open grasslands that surrounded her home, a farm on the edge of the town, on the edge of the county, on the edge of the kingdom.

  Her run came to an end as she reached the top of a hill overlooking endless green land. Birds twittered their song. She belonged here. She was safe here. There was nothing to fear.

  You will never return to this place.

  The voice struck like a knife through her ribs. It was an alien voice, malevolent in its nature. It shook her from the memory but she couldn’t open her eyes, she couldn’t escape it.

  All this is gone now. You are gone now. And I am here.

  Her memory darkened, the blue sky consumed by black cloud, the green that surrounded her turning to ash grey.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’

  Another baleful laugh. Want? I have everything I need from you. All you are is but a distant memory, a shade. Soon there will be nothing of you but dust on the breeze.

  She looked down to see she was a young girl no longer. The flesh of her arms had withered, her legs little more than skin and bone.

  ‘What is happening to me? Why are you doing this to me?’

  My need is greater, said the voice. You are nothing but a vessel. That’s all you ever were. Your whole life was without meaning other than to fulfil this purpose.

  ‘But why?’ She was pleading now. Desperate to know the reason she was made to suffer like this.

  Because it pleases me, I will show you.

  Her memory shifted again. The ashen land that surrounded her turned to desert. Copses of trees shifting and rising into ancient temple walls that might once have been resplendent but now looked to be all but ruins.

  She stood in the midst of a vast courtyard. Surrounding her were an array of warriors, some savage, some noble, some heavily armoured, some in resplendent robes. Every one of them had their head bowed in supplication. In front of her, the hag could see a raised platform, ancient stones elevated above the crowd, a makeshift altar at which they worshipped. Upon it stood a woman dressed in red, white hair flowing down past her shoulders. She stood over these warriors like a queen, like a goddess, but there was nothing benevolent about her. Everything in her demeanour spoke malice. Yet still the warriors worshipped her, and in turn she consumed that worship like a leech sucking the blood through their flesh, letting it nourish her.

  This vision spurred something in the old hag. She remembered this place, remembered her fear, and even as she closed her eyes against it, the memory would not fade. The goddess stared at her from the platform, lips parting in a dreadful smile. Then she opened her mouth and screeched.

  The old woman opened her eyes. She was back on an open field and for a fleeting moment she hoped she was back in her memory of childhood. But no, the eagles flew above her, their screeching
growing louder, more frantic. When she looked up she saw that they no longer wheeled in a dance, but instead fought in a frenzy. Beaks tore, talons ripped. Blood and feathers flew in a storm. It was hideous to behold, but as with so many sickening sights she had witnessed, she could not turn her gaze away from it.

  Nausea slowly overwhelmed her, dragging her down into the pit. She closed her eyes once more, feeling the ground begin to consume her, this whole place swallowing her. Before she was buried alive in the grass, someone grabbed her hand.

  She opened her eyes. There was a farmhouse she recognised in the distance. Her body once more felt full of vigour and she was a girl again. Holding her hand was an old man, his kind face marred by age. She didn’t recognise him but something inside told her not to be afraid, that she could trust this man.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello back,’ she answered.

  His smile grew wider, showing his lack of teeth.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  The old man paused for a moment, raising his eyes to the sky as though the answer might be written there. ‘Now that’s a question,’ he said finally. ‘But perhaps the real question you should be asking, is who are you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a tough one,’ said the old man. ‘But then again, who are any of us anyway?’

  That annoyed her. She had enough questions as it was without this old goat getting philosophical.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ she said, not even trying to hide her annoyance.

  ‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you,’ he replied. ‘What I do know is that you don’t belong here.’

  That much was obvious. ‘So where do I belong? And how do I get back there?’

  The old man thought on that for a moment. Then looked straight at her and shook his head.

  ‘This is pointless,’ she said, feeling her frustration build.

  She felt trapped in a cage, surrounded by torturers and fools. There was no way to tell what was real and what was a lie. Or even if this whole place was one big trick. Was she dead? Or merely dreaming?

  The girl turned from the old man and sat down on a log. The weight of it all was getting too much. Perhaps she should just sit here and wait for it all to pass. Wait to be awoken from this nightmare. The old man came to sit down beside her, and they both looked out at the countryside surrounding them.

  ‘I wish I could help you more,’ he said. ‘But I have problems of my own. There’s always work to do around the farm, and with no help I’m scuppered. If I just had a pig or two—’

  ‘You’re all alone?’ she said.

  ‘Yep. Have been for a while now. Ever since…’ His brow furrowed as though he were trying to retrieve a distant memory.

  ‘Why don’t I help you?’ she said. ‘I could stay here and work with you on the farm.’

  As she said the words, the feeling that she knew the old man grew within her. He was special to her. She knew him, that much was obvious, but the memory of him was beyond her reach. Nevertheless, she felt that staying here and working on the farm with this old man was the most natural thing in the world. That was her purpose. Not to be a ‘vessel’ for some witch-queen.

  ‘That would be nice,’ the old man said. ‘But you can’t stay here. You have to go.’

  ‘No. Why? I don’t want to go, I like it here. I belong here. And where would I go? How do I know where I have to go if I don’t even know where I am?’

  ‘You have to go,’ he said once more.

  ‘But go where?’

  ‘Go!’ he screamed right at her, his face contorting, stretching into a beastly visage.

  The old woman opened her eyes in time to see a wide-open beak. One of the eagles was swooping in low, right at her, its screech deafening.

  She dived to the ground as the eagle swept over her with a whoosh of feathered wings, talons clacking shut, tearing the cotton of her dress.

  The other eagles were wheeling above her, their animosity forgotten now they had a common target.

  She scrambled to her feet, running again. Always running, the memory of that old man already fading. The beat of wings rushed through the air behind as her withered legs propelled her. Nearby was the edge of a forest, her only escape.

  This time as the eagle plunged in there was no screech of warning. She sensed the attack nonetheless and dived to the ground, hearing the snap of talons that found nothing but air. Again she was on her feet, legs pumping for all they were worth. The tree line was just ahead, the tantalising safety of the wood. With a last burst of effort she rushed into the sanctity of the forest, hearing the frustrated screeches of the eagles above her.

  Gasping for air, she clung to the trunk of a tree, gripping it as though it were her rescuer. She was enveloped in the dark cloying safety of the wood, hearing nothing now but the quiet rush of leaves in the wind. She should have felt safe but it was obvious there were yet more dangers ahead.

  The hag closed her eyes, desperate to get back to the old man, willing herself to return to that farm, to the land where she knew she was safe, where she was young again. But that place was gone, already drifting away like the memory of a dream fading in the morning light.

  With no other choice, she pressed further on into the wood.

  7

  The Cordral Extent, 106 years after the Fall

  CTENKA Sunatra had been a model recruit. When he first enlisted in the Great Eastern Militia he would leap from his bunk every morning, his enthusiasm boundless. His eagerness to prove himself meant he attacked every task with all the vigour of youth. Drilling and weapons training, cleaning his uniform, polishing his armour and weapons until he could shave his wispy facial hair in the reflection.

  Six months into his posting at Dunrun and all that had changed.

  The sun lanced into the barrack room through slats in the wooden blinds, and Ctenka Sunatra stared at them with one bleary eye. He could barely raise his head from the pillow, groggy with wine, his mouth dry as a dead dog.

  Another day.

  One more endless bloody day.

  He sat up, dragging one leg after the other over the side of the bed. The rest of the tiny barrack room was empty, its ten bunks in varying states of disarray. At least he wasn’t alone in his apathy.

  The Great Eastern Militia had once been a powerful military force. Indeed, its training grounds in Kantor were still a testament to that. But on the fringes of the Cordral, where old outposts lay in disrepair to rot in the sun, it was an entirely different story. Since the Fall most of those great monuments had crumbled. No longer did thaumaturges and sorcerers stand upon the battlements defending the city-state and its people from invaders. Now its soldiers were left to suffer the vagaries of the wilderness, waiting for an enemy that would never come.

  Ctenka’s father had once told him of what nobility there was in service. The old soldier had a hundred stories of bravery in the face of insurmountable odds. Last stands fought on the fringes, as the soldiers of the Cordral rallied to defend their great nation. Ctenka had discovered something very different. All he had learned was how apathetic an army can become when there are no more wars to fight.

  He pulled on his trews, once again ignoring the hole in the knee. His unpolished boots sat in a heap along with his tunic, the eagle symbol sewn on the front long since frayed.

  A year ago he had appeared immaculate in this gear. When first he came to Dunrun he had looked out of place – a pearl amidst pig shit. Now he fitted right in. Another turd in the pile.

  Picking up his sword, Ctenka headed for the door. The weapon rattled in his grip, blade far too loose in the scabbard, pommel and cross-guard rusted, leather binding worn paper-thin. Good weapon maintenance had been drilled into them in the training grounds but out here no one seemed to care, and Ctenka had soon fallen into the same bad habits as his peers. It was a regret, but not one so keen that he would want to change his ways now. What would be the point?

 
; Outside the sun had already risen over the Crooked Jaw, beaming down onto the courtyard, stamping everything beneath its oppressive foot. Ctenka squinted, the light only making his fuddled head throb that much more.

  Saying a silent prayer to Sol that he made it through the day without throwing up, he walked towards the Hangman’s Gate. It was the innermost of the five gates that defended the Cordral Extent from the Shengen Empire. Where the Skull Road spilled out from the Crooked Jaw stood the vast and ancient fortress of Dunrun. It was once manned by almost a thousand soldiers of the Eastern Militia, vigilantly guarding the important trade route against any sign of attack from imperial invaders. Now there were less than fifty men rattling around within the ancient ramparts.

  Some were green recruits like Ctenka, sent for whatever reason to the arse end of the Cordral to waste away in the sun. Most were veterans, too old to hold a place among the Kantor Militia and too broken from a life of military service to be of any use elsewhere. Among those veterans there were some who seemed to still give a damn, executing their duties with dedication and putting their younger counterparts to shame.

  One such man waited for Ctenka beneath the oppressive shadow of the Hangman’s Gate.

  He stood a little over six feet, and though well into his fifties he was still broad at the shoulder and thick in the arm, his wide chest running to a slim waist, giving him the silhouette of a much younger man. His face though showed the truth of his years. His close-cropped hair and beard were silver, bright blue eyes peering from within brows wrinkled by decades of care.

  ‘Morning, Ermund,’ Ctenka said as he approached the militiaman.

  ‘Late again, Ctenka?’ said Ermund without any humour.

  ‘I am nothing if not a creature of habit, my friend,’ Ctenka replied with a smile. It was not returned.

  They continued on their way, walking beneath the shadow of the Hangman’s Gate. It was the largest of the great gates of Dunrun, a huge barbican twenty feet thick spanning the entryway to the pass. In years gone by, the warriors of the militia had hanged bandits and invaders from its walls, hence the gruesome name. Now all that hung from it was the same stench of despair and ruin that lingered over the rest of Dunrun.