Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2) Page 6

  ‘I will do my best to persuade Kantor to send its best,’ replied Ermund, before turning to Ziyadin. ‘Now, I suggest we allow these men inside the walls of Dunrun. Under guard, of course.’

  Ziyadin considered Ermund’s suggestion for a moment before conceding with a nod.

  Laigon saluted his appreciation and turned on his heel before marching back through the gate. The centurion spoke to his men. They dutifully abandoned their arms in strict military order, shields lined up in uniform rows, spears and swords propped behind.

  Marshal Ziyadin summoned the entire retinue of militia to guide the Shengen warriors inside the walls of Dunrun under armed supervision. Up close, Ctenka could see some were wounded, all dishevelled as though they had fled a great conflict and barely survived.

  ‘What if he’s telling the truth?’ Ctenka asked Ermund, as they closed the gates behind the soldiers. ‘What if a mighty army is on its way here?’

  ‘One thing at a time,’ Ermund replied. ‘First we have some travelling to do.’

  It took Ctenka a moment to process Ermund’s words. ‘We?’

  Ermund looked down. ‘Of course. You don’t think I’d set off on such a dangerous mission without you. Now come. We must learn everything we can about this Iron Tusk and his army before we make the journey to Kantor.’

  Ctenka followed, open-mouthed. As much as he relished the prospect of leaving this place now it was under threat, he hadn’t anticipated embarking on such an important mission. Either way, it appeared he had no choice in the matter.

  Later they sat in the mess room beside the rearmost courtyard of Dunrun. Ermund, Ziyadin and Ctenka were across from Laigon. He and his men had been fed and watered, consuming everything as though they had not eaten for days.

  ‘We ride tomorrow,’ Ermund said, when Laigon had finished. ‘Before we take word to Kantor, can you tell us what has happened in the empire?’

  The centurion sat back and took a deep breath. A sadness crossed his eyes, and Ctenka found himself pitying this great warrior.

  Eventually he looked up and said, ‘I’ll tell you everything I know…’

  LAIGON

  I

  ASPEAR punctured the earth at his feet. He paused from shouting orders at his men long enough to wrench it from the ground and send it soaring back towards their attackers. Laigon’s voice was hoarse from yelling and now all he wanted to do was kill.

  ‘Tulius, lock your damn shield,’ he barked.

  Before Tulius could obey an arrow struck him below the cheek guard of his helm. He fell forward silently, leaving a gap in the shield wall that was quickly filled by another legionary.

  Half a dozen brigands came screaming down the mountain path, axes and swords high. It was suicide, but Laigon could see the zeal in their eyes. They threw themselves against the armoured might of the Fourth Standing, breaking on the shields, run through by a dozen spears, still screaming in fury even as they fell.

  More arrows followed from the ridge above, most tamping harmlessly off legionary armour. Laigon felt one hit his chest and heard the telltale thunk. Looking down he could see it protruding from his breastplate but the steel held. His anger simmered as he pulled the arrow from his armour and flung it aside.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ shouted Primaris Vallion. Laigon’s second-in-command was not easily flustered but it was obvious they were fighting a losing battle. Despite how poorly armed their enemy was, they more than made up for it in overwhelming numbers and fervour. It seemed the tales of this bandit king were true – he had turned disparate tribes of brigands into a fanatical horde.

  ‘Fall back by ranks,’ Laigon shouted over the din. More bandits were racing down the pass. This time there were more than Laigon could count at a glance.

  With their shields still locked, the survivors of the Fourth retreated steadily, their footfalls resounding in well-drilled unison. Laigon felt the regret cut him deep. Further up the pass were the corpses of the rest of their cohort, his brothers lost to the enemy. He could only imagine how these foul savages would desecrate the bodies, but for now he had to focus on the living.

  The enemy was almost on them. Laigon’s troops were still retreating and would be off balance once the wave hit. Despite their need to retreat, they would also need to weather this attack or all was lost.

  ‘Brace!’ Laigon screamed, a moment before the first of the bandits threw themselves at the legionaries. The resounding clang of weapons hitting tower shields rang throughout the pass. Arrows continued to rain down and Laigon fought the instinct to take cover. He carried no shield and held only his sword in hand, but he had to stand tall and resolute in the face of the enemy. He was an example to his men. A centurion could show no fear, even in the face of defeat.

  The second rank of the shield wall stabbed forward with their spears, impaling their attackers as the shield bearers held back the horde. Laigon glanced back, seeing the pass clear behind them. It was their only way of escape.

  ‘Disengage!’ he shouted above the noise, arrows whipping past his head.

  ‘Retreat!’ Vallion confirmed and the legionaries backed away as one.

  Laigon stood firm; he would guard the rear as his men escaped. If necessary he would stand and die – better that than face the shame of his failure back in Nephyr.

  The troops retreated past their centurion, as Laigon planted his feet, sword raised. The first of the brigands came at him, face a mask of scars and ill intent. Laigon took his head off with a deft swipe of the sword, then stepped forward, foot churning the soft earth of the mountain pass. Another hack of the sword and he had broken the haft of an axe, blade slicing through an arm. Another step and he severed the leg of a screaming bandit.

  Laigon was surrounded now. He felt his lips move back, baring his teeth, his breath deep and even as he fought the temptation to unleash his anger – staying in control. If he succumbed to the lust of battle he would leave himself vulnerable. He had to focus. That was the only way he could—

  Behind him the pass exploded in blinding light and shuddering heat.

  Laigon foundered. He was on the ground now, his helmet lost. Around him lay a score of bandits, burned and moaning. He checked himself, seeing his armour had taken the brunt of the explosion, but it was now tarnished and blackened.

  As the ringing in his ears subsided there was screaming. Laigon rose to unsteady feet, turning to see some of his men flailing, still on fire. From the cliffs that overlooked the pass the bandits had dropped flaming, pitch-covered bundles. Their escape route was now blocked by an inferno.

  A screaming bandit came at Laigon through the smoke, his back consumed with flames. With no sword, Laigon had to make do with grasping the burning man by the throat. It stifled his scream, turning it into a pitiful choking sound as Laigon throttled him to death.

  Vallion appeared from the smoke, followed by a dozen surviving legionaries.

  ‘Form a line,’ Laigon growled as he squeezed the last of the life from the flaming brigand.

  ‘Shields,’ Vallion ordered.

  Laigon could only admire the discipline of his men as they formed a rudimentary shield wall, despite some of them being badly wounded.

  The fire crackled and sparked behind them. Through the smoke they watched and waited for more charging bandits to come racing at them, but no one appeared. As the smoke gradually cleared, Laigon could see the enemy standing in a mob, waiting. Glancing up at the cliffs overlooking the path there were more of them looking down, bows nocked, a score of arrows levelled and ready.

  ‘Do we attack, Centurion?’ Vallion asked.

  ‘Hold your ground,’ Laigon replied. ‘Let them come at us.’

  They waited. But the brigands did not move. Laigon watched the enemy standing there. Every eye harboured madness, every fist held a weapon, but still they stood waiting – though for what, Laigon couldn’t tell.

  ‘Warriors of the Shengen,’ came a shout from the crowd of bandits. ‘You cannot win. You cannot flee. Thr
ow down your arms and live.’

  Laigon shook his head. Even if the shame of surrender were not too much to bear, could he trust these savages to spare them? If they fought they would die, but perhaps Laigon could take a gamble for the lives of his men.

  He stepped forward through the smoke, getting a clearer look at what he faced. These brigands were true savages; faces painted and scarred – some of those wounds were shaped in strange patterns as though they had been self-inflicted.

  ‘There is no need for more needless slaughter,’ Laigon announced. ‘I will fight the best among you. If I win my men go free. I lose and my men will surrender to you.’

  ‘Centurion—’ Vallion protested, but Laigon silenced him with a gesture.

  At first there were subdued mutterings within the crowd. Then a voice said, ‘You will have your wish, Shengen. Let us find our champion.’

  That raised some mirth from among the brigands, their laughter seeming at odds with the fanatical zeal they still bore in their eyes.

  Laigon turned back to his men. One of them, Retuchius, had found his sword in the dirt and handed it to him reverently. With a nod of gratitude, Laigon took it and kneeled. Quietly he said a prayer to Portius the Trickster that he would find victory, but only so his men would live.

  From behind he suddenly heard disquiet among the horde of bandits. Some began to chant over and over – Tusk, Tusk, Tusk – as though they were summoning some vile demon from the pit.

  Laigon turned to see the crowd part, allowing something monstrous to pass through their midst.

  A huge bear walked among them, its tread slow and measured. The face of the creature was concealed behind a mask of metal, chains and rings pierced through its flesh, coat mange-ridden and scabbed. It was truly a grotesque sight, but no more grotesque than the creature that rode upon its back.

  With fear rising within him, Laigon realised that it was no bandit champion he was about to fight, but their warlord himself.

  The Iron Tusk was huge, his bare chest a mass of swollen muscle. One meaty hand rested on his thigh, the other held the reins attached to the bear’s helm. Atop the warlord’s shoulders was the most fearsome visage Laigon had ever seen in all his days of fighting the emperor’s foes.

  At first he thought the warlord wore an ordinary helm, but as the Iron Tusk rode closer it was clear the metal that encased his head had been hammered and riveted to his face and skull. Half the pale flesh beneath was still visible and he stared with one baleful green eye. A horn protruded from one side of his head, the flesh around it raw and livid, and Laigon almost gagged at the sight.

  As the warlord guided his bear through the crowd, Laigon fought the urge to turn tail and run headlong into the wall of flames. This was a battle he could not win, but fight it he must.

  Without a word the Iron Tusk dismounted as the great bear bellowed a roar that echoed throughout the mountain pass. He walked forward, single eye intent on Laigon, who stood his ground despite every fibre in his body screaming for him to flee.

  The warlord stopped in front of him, no weapon in his hand, no armour bedecking his tree trunk of a body.

  ‘The Iron Tusk accepts your challenge, Shengen,’ shouted a voice from the band of brigands. ‘Feel free to fight him.’

  Someone laughed. A cool gust of air blew along the mountain pass, whipping the smoke into swirls. Laigon swallowed as best he could. All the while that single eye looked down at him, more animal than human.

  With a grunt, Laigon swung his sword, a blow that would have split timber. The Iron Tusk caught the blade in one huge fist and gripped it tightly. Laigon tried to wrest the weapon from his foe but it was as though it were wedged in a wooden post.

  The Iron Tusk held tight, no sign of any blood dripping from his clenched fist. Laigon realised he had already lost. That there was nothing he could do against this monster. Slowly he loosed his grip on the sword, all the fight draining from him under the scrutiny of that one green eye.

  They stared at one another then, for the longest time, until the Iron Tusk raised a huge hand and placed it on Laigon’s shoulder. It was a hand that could have crushed rock, but it was gentle as it compelled Laigon to kneel.

  All the while he stared into that eye, feeling his resistance wane and die. Behind him, his men likewise let go of shields and spears and dropped to their knees.

  ‘Abandon your false gods.’

  The command was clear in Laigon’s head, though the Iron Tusk spoke no words.

  ‘Abandon your mortal emperor.’

  The command was anathema to him, Laigon was nothing if not loyal and pious, but still he knelt. Still he listened.

  ‘I will be your god and your emperor. I will embody all you worship. All you serve.’

  Laigon stared into that one eye. He knew he should resist, should fight, should stand and spit in that eye, but there was nothing he could do against such will. Against such power.

  ‘Pledge yourself to me, Laigon Valdyr, and you shall have everything you have ever coveted. You shall have glory. You shall win honour on the field in my name.’

  As the words were spoken, Laigon felt the last bastion of his will crumble to dust. There was no being in the world he would rather serve than the Iron Tusk.

  ‘Pray before me, and you will be rewarded beyond anything you could imagine.’

  The fire crackled and the wind blew through the pass, and Laigon Valdyr prayed to his new master.

  II

  THE shining streets of Nephyr had never seemed as alien to Laigon as they did today. He had walked the White City’s marble-paved Road of Immortals a thousand times, but now he felt like a stranger in the city of his birth.

  Where before a victory parade would see the streets lined with the cheering masses, now there was silence. Streaming garlands and a petal-strewn path were replaced by crowds of sullen citizens staring blankly at their passing. Nothing but the sounds of marching feet echoed through the city. They even seemed to have frightened the birds from the rooftops.

  At their head rode the Iron Tusk, surrounded by his retinue of faithful brigands. Over the months of conflict, Laigon had watched as the noble legionaries of every Standing had fallen to their knees in supplication. Every army Emperor Demetrii had set against the Iron Tusk had proclaimed the warlord their new god-king or died at his hand.

  And all the while, Laigon had watched and done nothing.

  Not a day went by when he did not regret his decision, but pledging himself to the Iron Tusk had seemed the only thing to do – as though he had no choice in it. Every man had a choice, every man walked his own path, but in this Laigon had felt compelled. It was a decision he was helpless to change. He was servant to a new master now. Or was he a slave?

  What had made him succumb so easily? What had made so many others follow in his wake? What magic was at work here?

  No, it could not be magic. The ancient sorcerers were dead and gone. Magic had been struck from the world, never to return. This was the inexorable power of one man… no matter how inhuman that man seemed to be.

  Laigon could see him up ahead now, that horned head and powerful torso elevated above the crowd. The vast beast on which he rode making its way through the streets of Nephyr as though they had always belonged to him.

  The warlord mounted the white stone stairway up to the imperial palace. With every step the Praetorian Guard that lined the way dropped to their knees, bowing their heads to a new sovereign.

  So easily the Iron Tusk was able to bend men to his will. So naturally they abandoned their former loyalties and pledged themselves to this eidolon. And yet still Laigon tried to convince himself this was not magic. It could not be. His former loyalties could not have been abandoned because of some enchantment. Surely he was simply doing what was right? What he was meant to do?

  The centurion shook his head, loosening a bead of sweat which ran from beneath the rim of his helm and down his forehead. This was no time for doubt.

  He followed the procession up t
he great stairway and beneath the arched entrance to the palace. The huge domed ceiling soared fifty feet above them, but loomed over Laigon as though he had entered the darkest cave, the sense of foreboding ominous.

  At the far end of the grand temple stood the emperor’s throne. Demetrii sat in all his regalia – golden armour making him seem more than a man, decorative helm bestrewn with a plume of red and blue feathers. He watched impassively as the Iron Tusk rode that bear towards him. Laigon could only admire the emperor’s courage.

  Demetrii stood from his throne as the Iron Tusk approached. Even elevated as he was on the throne’s dais, the warlord stood at the same eye level. Laigon was close enough to see the emperor’s face, his expression rigid. So many times Laigon had knelt before that throne and now he watched as an interloper desecrated its sanctity. And yet he did nothing.

  There was a fleeting moment where Demetrii seemed to consider his actions, as though he doubted whether or not to offer fealty to this monster. He glanced across the gathered ranks, the warriors of the Standings, and his gaze hovered over Laigon. Shame filled the centurion, and he could not hold his emperor’s glance, looking away rather than be cut further by the betrayal on Demetrii’s face.

  Taking every step with reverent care, Demetrii descended the dais to stand before the Iron Tusk. He opened his mouth to speak. Laigon remembered that voice; one that spoke with such authority. But before he could utter a word the warlord said, ‘Kneel.’

  One word, but it held such power that it silenced an emperor.

  Demetrii dropped to his knees before the Iron Tusk and bowed his head.

  ‘See,’ said the warlord, turning to face the gathered rows of warriors. ‘See how your emperor kneels. See how he is made to yield. Know that none can resist. Not one among you can defy me.’

  He walked forward and laid a hand on the huge head of that armoured bear. There was a sound, a whisper of something in a language Laigon could not catch.