by R. S. Ford
As evening drew in, Ctenka noticed an edifice protruding from the sand. It was a few hundred yards from the road, easily visible, and he pointed, drawing Ermund’s attention to it. Ermund glanced across the sand, not seeming to pay much mind.
‘We must have passed it on the way from Dunrun,’ said Ctenka. ‘How come we didn’t see it then?’
Ermund gave him a long look of disinterest. ‘How do I know? Maybe it was buried in the sand. Maybe there was a storm in the past week that uncovered it.’
Ctenka thought that was possible but unlikely, his curiosity getting the better of him. ‘Night will be drawing in soon,’ he said. ‘Maybe it would be a good place to shelter.’
‘As good a place as any,’ said Ermund. ‘We might not lose as many men tonight if they’re all inside.’
Ctenka ignored the barb as they led the prisoners across the sand to the stone edifice. On closer inspection he could see it was some kind of ancient temple swallowed by the sands. It might have been centuries since anyone had last explored its depths and this made Ctenka nervous. Anything could have made its home inside and there might be jackals or worse lurking within. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
‘Well? What you waiting for?’
Ctenka looked down to see it was Josten who had spoken. It was clear he and Ermund shared the same impatience, as well as the same gruffness. All eyes were on him now. Ermund, the prisoners, even the children were looking at him expectantly. With some reluctance he climbed down from his horse.
The entrance to the ancient temple was a weathered hole in the stone. Ctenka pulled a torch from his saddlebag and deftly lit it with flint and tinder. Holding it ahead of him, he had no choice but to plunge into the dark. The entrance dipped down. There might once have been stairs, but now there was just a steep ramp of sand beneath his feet, leading down into gods knew what. He picked his way down carefully, until eventually he came out into a massive cave.
Ctenka could see there were carvings on the walls, depictions of ancient figures. On closer examination he saw they were of the Cordral pantheon – Vane the Hunter, Anural the Cupbearer, Karnak the Reaver, all carved into the stone. This was a holy place, or at least it had been. Now it was as dead as the desert.
He had never put much store in the gods before. Maybe if he had worshipped in a place as magnificent as this when he was younger he might have paid them more than mere lip service.
A noise made him turn, his heart beating like a drum. He let out a long breath as the light from his torch showed him it was just the others entering the confines of the cave.
‘We got bored of waiting,’ said Ermund. ‘What have you found?’
‘I think this must have been some kind of temple,’ Ctenka replied, looking back at the walls. ‘A place of worship.’
‘And sacrifice.’
Ctenka turned at Josten’s voice, seeing him lounging atop an altar of some kind. In the light shed by his torch, he could see that gutters had been carved into the stone to let blood run from the altar and puddle in troughs set in the floor.
Thinking about it, perhaps he wouldn’t have liked it so much as a child.
‘Whatever went on here hasn’t happened for a hundred years,’ said Ermund. ‘This is as safe a place as any to make camp. Best get some rest. We’re still at least a day away from Dunrun.’
This time, before they settled for the night, Ermund tied a rope through the manacles of the prisoners. He was taking no chances that any of them would escape, so feeling a little safer, Ctenka settled down to sleep in the dead temple.
He woke to Ermund shaking him like a madman. Ctenka sat up. He could hear a noise like the distraught keening of some trapped animal.
‘What the fuck is that?’ he said.
Ermund shone his torch towards the corner of the cave. Ctenka could see Lena standing, gripping herself tight. The little girl was making a hell of a noise, eyes wide as though she had seen some unspeakable horror.
‘The boy’s gone,’ said Ermund. ‘And so is that prisoner you were having such a romantic talk with the other day.’
Ctenka rose to his feet. The prisoners were all still manacled together apart from one. Daffyd had managed to slip his chains in the night and flee, and it looked like he had taken Castiel with him.
‘How long have they been gone?’ asked Ctenka.
Ermund shook his head. ‘I have no idea. They must have slipped past me in the dark.’
‘Then how the fuck are we going to find them? They could be anywhere.’
Ermund looked like he was about to argue, when Josten stood up, manacles jangling. ‘I can find them,’ he said. ‘Just let me loose.’
‘You must be fucking joking,’ said Ermund. ‘You think I’m just going to set you free?’
‘You know I can track anything that walks. If you want them back you need me.’
Ermund looked defiant, but Ctenka had heard enough. ‘All right. I’ll go with you.’
‘Not a chance,’ said Ermund. ‘You don’t know how dangerous this man is.’
‘And I don’t give a damn,’ said Ctenka. ‘I’m not leaving Castiel out there alone with a complete stranger.’
Ermund wasn’t about to argue with that, and he stayed silent as Ctenka unlocked Josten’s manacles.
‘Cross me and I’ll kill you,’ Ctenka said, trying to sound as convincing as he could.
‘I believe you,’ Josten replied.
That was just the reply Ctenka had wanted, but it did little to bolster his confidence. If it came down to it he wasn’t sure he could kill another man. Not after the innkeeper.
Before they left, Ctenka turned to Ermund. ‘If we’re not back by tomorrow you may as well leave without us.’
Ermund said nothing, and Ctenka realised that was the best he was going to get.
Outside, the sun was just rising, casting a red pall across the desert. Josten checked the ground, laying his hand on the sand. All Ctenka could see was a mass of footprints from the night before. Clearly Josten had a better eye… or at least Ctenka hoped.
‘This way,’ said Josten finally, rising to his feet and pointing back down the road to the west.
‘Wait,’ said Ctenka.
He untethered two horses before offering the reins of one to Josten, who looked at him quizzically. ‘You sure about this? I could just ride off.’
‘I guess I’ll have to trust you then,’ said Ctenka. ‘Try not to let me down.’
Josten mounted the horse without a word, and as Ctenka sat in his own saddle he half expected the man to gallop off into the distance. Instead Josten set a steady pace back along the road.
They travelled for almost the whole morning, occasionally stopping to check for signs on the road. Eventually, Josten veered his mount off the path, following a barely visible set of footprints over the harsh scrub.
‘Tracks are fresh,’ said Josten. ‘I reckon they’re just over that—’
A scream cut the air. It chilled Ctenka to the bone. Josten had no such qualms, kicking his horse and guiding it over the ridge. Ctenka took a deep breath and shook his head, then followed.
When he crested the rise, he saw Josten had dismounted. He was kneeling next to Castiel, who stood silently, staring into space like he always did. Beyond them was a derelict building, not big enough to be a temple, but perhaps some kind of abandoned outpost.
Ctenka kicked his horse forward. ‘Is he all right?’ he asked.
‘Seems to be,’ Josten said. ‘Not a mark on him, from what I can see.’
‘What about Daffyd?’
Josten looked up to the building, then walked towards it with purpose.
‘Wait,’ Ctenka said, about to offer his sword until he realised what a stupid move that would have been.
Josten ignored him anyway, moving to the building. Ctenka dismounted, kneeling beside Castiel.
‘Are you okay?’ Ctenka asked. ‘Did he hurt you?’
Castiel’s eyes were fixed on the horizon, as i
f he’d spotted something that fascinated him. It was then Ctenka caught the smell, like someone had set fire to horseshit.
Josten reappeared, his expression telling a tale all its own. He clearly hadn’t liked whatever he’d seen inside.
‘What is it?’ Ctenka said.
Josten shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Is that bastard in there?’ Ctenka rose to his feet, feeling his anger rising. ‘I’ll kill the fucker.’
He walked towards the building. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Josten said, but Ctenka was too angry to stop himself. As soon as he stepped inside he instantly regretted following his fury.
Daffyd sat in the corner of the room. His leggings were slipped down to his knees, flaccid cock wan and useless. Half his torso and face were burned off, flesh cracked and still smouldering.
Ctenka’s stomach flipped, bile rising in his throat. He made it into the open air before vomiting onto the ground.
‘I tried to tell you,’ said Josten.
Ctenka looked up to see the prisoner had already mounted his horse. Castiel was sitting in front of him, face still blank.
‘Can we go now?’ said Josten. ‘Or do you want to see anything else?’
Ctenka mounted his horse and let Josten lead the way back. On the way east all he could see was that immolated corpse.
Glancing at Castiel he wondered what else the boy was capable of. It seemed Randal truly had given them a gift after all.
24
HE knelt in the tower of the Chapel Gate surrounded by foreign idols. This was a holy place, albeit neglected in recent years, and despite the fact he did not recognise the statues that surrounded him, Laigon was at peace here. He had always been a pious man, had always worshipped his gods as much as his emperor, but now Demetrii was gone and the gods were all he had left.
Laigon felt the pewter figurine, cold in his palm. It was reassuring to have it so close – something familiar in this strange place. Portius the Trickster was not a god soldiers would pray to in times of war, but Laigon had long since chosen him above all others. Better Portius’ cunning than the strength of the war god Galles. Especially now they were so sorely outnumbered.
Laigon gripped the tiny figure and invoked his ancestors, invoked the gods, invoked the memory of the emperor, anything he thought might help. He and his men faced impossible odds and they needed all the help they could get. If there was the slightest chance any of the gods were listening he had to try.
All the while he tried not to think about his family back in the White City. He could only hope that Verrana and Petrachus had been spared. That the Iron Tusk had not seen fit to make an example. He prayed for that hardest of all. Laigon didn’t care if he fell in battle as long as his family was safe.
‘Centurion, my apologies.’
Laigon recognised the voice of Primaris Vallion. He stood, slipping the figurine into the pocket at his belt.
‘No need to apologise, Primaris. I was just taking a moment.’
‘I understand, Centurion. But you are needed at the gate.’
‘Today is the day?’ Laigon asked.
Vallion nodded.
They both made their way down from the chapel and out onto the courtyard. As they walked through the fort of Dunrun they could see preparations for battle still frantically being made by the Cordral militia. Some men lugged fallen blocks of stone to erect makeshift barricades while others sharpened weapons or practised their swordplay.
At the Sandstone Gate, Marshal Ziyadin gave Laigon a nod of respect. It might not have meant much, but still Laigon answered in kind.
‘You know your orders, Marshal,’ Laigon said.
‘Yes, Centurion,’ Ziyadin replied.
Laigon was pleased that any doubt as to who was in charge had now been expunged.
Ziyadin and his militia were to wait at the Sandstone Gate. The Red Standing would have the honour of being the vanguard.
As Laigon walked through the Sandstone Gate, his legionaries were waiting for him in the courtyard beyond. Every man was bedecked in red, shields and spears at the ready. High atop the Eagle Gate was a single legionary watching the Skull Road.
Vallion took his place with the men, and Laigon observed them for a moment, all those faces he knew so well. He had led them to this, and they had followed. A more loyal group of soldiers he had never known and it made him proud to be standing beside them.
‘The enemy is coming,’ Laigon announced. ‘And we are all that stands between them and this foreign land. We are all that stands between them and the slaughter of innocents. Every man here knows what the Iron Tusk will do if he is allowed to pass through these gates. We have seen it. We have lived it. And so we must stand as the last barrier. We must hold this place. We must prove to him that not everyone will kneel before his tyranny. The Shengen we knew is lost. All that remains of it is here, the ground upon which we stand, for we are the last true warriors of the empire. This is our homeland now. Who will help me defend it?’
As one, the Red Standing began to beat their shields against the ground. Laigon wanted to say more, wanted to tell these men of his faith in them, that their sacrifice would not go unnoticed by the gods, that they were the pride of the Shengen and the Emperor Demetrii. But none of that seemed to matter now. All that mattered was they were fighting for the right side. Not one of them doubted that.
The legionary at the top of the gate began waving his hand frantically. Their enemy was coming.
‘Form rank,’ Laigon ordered.
As one, his men turned to face the gate. They locked shields, spears thrust forward. There were forty-two men standing between an empire and a country they didn’t know. Forty-two men willing to fight their brothers to face down a tyrant. Laigon knew they would most likely die here. He had no doubt it would be glorious.
Arrows began slamming into the gate with an unmistakable thud. Each one was followed by the splash of oil as the bags that were attached to each arrow burst. More arrows followed, flaming tips igniting the oil that had soaked the dried timbers of the gate. Before long the first lick of fire appeared as the gate took. Still the Red Standing stood and waited as the flames turned from a flicker to a roaring inferno. The heat was intense but still they waited, shields locked.
It seemed to take an age for the gate to burn, but eventually it began to split and crack, crumbling in burning embers. Laigon could see past the fire now, see an army on the other side of that burning gate. He knew his men could see it too, and only hoped their resolve was as sturdy as their honour.
A warrior burst through the gate, body in flames, set alight by the firestorm still burning around him. He ran forward screaming, throwing himself at the shield wall. With a single spear thrust, the screaming was silenced and the body fell, but it was quickly followed by a cacophony.
Savages, half naked and armed to the teeth, threw themselves through the burning gate, heedless of the danger. Laigon recognised the tribal scarring of the Hintervale. These were warriors from a province beyond the north-eastern border of Shengen. Tribes that had never been subdued by Emperor Demetrii. Clearly the Iron Tusk had used other methods to bring them to heel. Now they fought for him with a fanatical zeal Laigon had never witnessed before. The warlord was throwing his expendable minions into the vanguard. Of course the Iron Tusk would not sacrifice his elite. Not yet anyway.
Like a wave of fury they hit the shield wall, snarling, screaming. Bone weapons clanked against shields like a relentless storm, but still the Red Standing held. Spears thrust out, the naked flesh of the Hintervale’s tribesmen easy meat for sharpened steel. Before long a pile of bodies lay dead and dying in front of the wall of armour, and Laigon felt himself swell with pride once more. Forty-one were all he had, but he could have been commanding an army for all the courage and discipline they displayed.
Before he could shower himself with further platitudes, a tribesman burst through the wall, laying low one of the legionaries. Laigon’s blade was alre
ady drawn, his legs already pumping as he sprinted to defend the rear of the shield wall. Just as the shields locked together once more, blocking the way, Laigon hacked down at the interloper, splitting him from shoulder to abdomen. It took a foot planted on the body to release his blade.
‘Step back,’ he bellowed.
As one, his shield wall retreated a step away from the burgeoning pile of corpses. If the men of the Hintervale were affected by the sight of their fellow tribesmen being butchered they didn’t show it. More of them poured through the Eagle Gate until the courtyard was a clogged mass of screaming barbarians.
Another tribesman leapt over the wall, his feat of strength exemplary. Laigon rewarded him with a sword to the chest, impaling him before he could think about attacking.
‘Step back,’ he ordered again.
Once more the Red Standing retreated closer to the Sandstone Gate, closer to Ziyadin’s waiting militia.
Laigon allowed himself a brief glance back, seeing the men of the Cordral watching in fear and awe. It would be their turn soon enough. Best they saw what they were letting themselves in for.
Laigon ordered his men back another pace, and again they obeyed him with uniform precision. To his right, he saw one of his legionaries go down under a torrent of violence. Instantly the men to either side of him locked shields to plug the gap, and Laigon ran forward. The young soldier clutched his side. To his shame, Laigon had forgotten his name. He had always prided himself in knowing the name of every last man, but in the heat of battle this one escaped him.
He dragged the boy back from the wall, but before he could begin to assess the extent of his injury, two militiamen had rushed forward to help. Laigon was pleased to see that one of them was Eyman.
