by R. S. Ford
‘We’ll take him, Centurion,’ Eyman said, and together the men dragged the legionary away.
The shield wall was wavering now. Sheer weight of numbers was becoming too much for forty men to bear.
‘On my mark, retreat,’ shouted Laigon.
At that order his men began to fight all the harder, spears thrusting forward maniacally, slaughtering the tribesmen like they were livestock, easy for the kill.
‘Mark,’ Laigon bellowed.
With that, the shield wall broke. The Red Standing retreated back the ten yards to the Sandstone Gate and Laigon ran with them, keeping a watchful eye for any man who might falter. To his relief they managed to retreat beneath the gate tower without another casualty. There the shield wall reformed and was instantly battered by the pursuing Hintervale tribesmen.
‘Marshal Ziyadin,’ Laigon shouted above the cacophony. ‘Now would be a good time for your men to begin.’
Ziyadin nodded, shouting orders to his dumbfounded men. Some of them obeyed immediately, others having to be nudged into action by their fellow militiamen.
The Sandstone Gate housed a portcullis, but try as they might the militia had been unable to release the ancient iron barricade from its housing. Laigon had decided the archway itself would act as a barrier, and for the past days the militia had worked frantically at undermining the gate’s foundations. Now the Sandstone Gate stood on a few fragile stone blocks.
As Laigon’s men held the narrow gap through the gate, the militia went at the blocks with their hammers. Laigon only hoped that his rudimentary understanding of siege engineering would be enough that the gate did not come crashing down on all of them.
‘Hold,’ he shouted to his men, as the tribesmen battered themselves against the shield wall in a last-ditch attempt to break through. As far as the tribesmen were concerned, their enemy had retreated in front of them and the savages of the Hintervale could now taste victory.
The Sandstone Gate suddenly shifted as one of the blocks was smashed to dust. Laigon looked up, for the first time doubting his plan. Another block cracked, giving way under the weight of the gate, and Laigon could delay no longer.
‘Full retreat,’ he cried, and just in time.
As his men moved back from their defensive position, the gate gave way. The huge portcullis came crashing down, flattening the tribesmen beneath it. Immediately after, the gateway itself gave out, blocks toppling down, smashing to the ground, crushing their enemy and blocking the way through.
Laigon and the rest of the defenders rushed back to the safety of the Tinker’s Gate, closing the wood and iron doors behind and barring the way.
As his men regained their breath and inspected their wounds, Laigon could only watch in relief.
‘You think that will hold them?’ Ziyadin asked, panting all the while.
Laigon shook his head. ‘They will move the rubble aside before the night is out. Then we will have another gate to defend. For now, Marshal, you should prepare your men. Before long they will see real battle.’
The solid oak barrier that was the Tinker’s Gate would certainly hold better than the other two had, but Laigon knew it would not keep the Standings of the Shengen out for long.
He could only hope help was on its way.
25
IF nothing else, these men of the Cordral knew how to celebrate. Even though it had been a small victory, they were keen to congratulate themselves, and Laigon sat and watched as they shared their meagre reserves of wine, patting one another on the back, telling stories of their contribution to the battle, no matter how paltry. He could have been angry at them. Could easily have found himself chastising these men for their hubris. But what did it matter? Let them have their moment. They would find out soon enough what it was like to fight in a real battle. They would learn that after the killing, if they were still alive, there would be little time for celebration. There would be wounded. There would be mourning. There would be nights haunted by the dead.
A militiaman burst into the chamber. His face was flushed, eyes wide.
‘They’re back,’ he blurted, staring around the room, desperate for someone to take charge.
Laigon stood, and his men of the Red Standing stood with him. Together they marched out into the morning sun and across the courtyard to the Tinker’s Gate. More militiamen were standing there, unsure of what to do, an air of fear and doubt hovering around them like a bad stink. At least they hadn’t fled.
He mounted the stair to the turret above the gate, fully expecting to see the Shengen army arrayed before him when he reached the summit. As he peered over the parapet there was but a single man waiting below.
Praetorian Kyon stood in the midst of the courtyard. Behind him the rubble of the Sandstone Gate had already been cleared aside. Beyond that, Laigon could see the shields and armour of a thousand legionaries shining in the sun. For his part, Kyon had chosen to face his enemy alone. Laigon couldn’t help but have a grudging respect for his bravery. Then again, he was a servant of the Iron Tusk. It wasn’t bravery; just a fanatic’s zeal that made him face Laigon single-handed.
‘Ah, Centurion Valdyr,’ said Kyon. ‘I see you are well.’
It seemed Kyon had changed his tune. Where before he had called Laigon ‘traitor’, now he used his title of centurion.
‘And so are you,’ said Laigon. ‘But then you haven’t sullied your armour in the fight yet. Will you be sending more tribesmen to sacrifice themselves in your stead?’
Kyon seemed to find that amusing. ‘Your bravery and ingenuity is without question. You have proven yourself yet again. The Iron Tusk admires your skill as a general, Laigon, but he still demands your surrender.’
‘Then perhaps he should ask for it himself,’ Laigon replied.
‘The Iron Tusk will be here soon enough. For now, I speak with his voice. You know you cannot win. This place will fall, your men will be slaughtered. If you surrender we can avoid any further bloodshed.’
‘Do you think me a fool? I have seen the Iron Tusk’s mercy with my own eyes.’
Kyon shook his head. ‘You underestimate him, Laigon. He is not without compassion.’
Laigon had heard enough. ‘There will be no surrender, Praetorian. We will fight to the last. The only way the Iron Tusk will pass through this fortress is over our rotting corpses.’
‘That is regrettable,’ said Kyon. ‘If I cannot persuade you, then perhaps a gift from the Iron Tusk himself will make you see sense.’
Kyon turned and signalled to his men in the distance and there was movement among the ranks of armoured troops. Laigon had a sudden feeling of dread. He knew this would be no gift he would want to receive.
‘What is this, Kyon?’ he shouted. ‘Have you brought innocent captives to be slaughtered before my eyes? You think that will soften my resolve?’
The praetorian shook his head. ‘The Iron Tusk is no monster, despite what you think. Do you think he would punish innocents for the sins of an errant general?’
Laigon could see now that prisoners were being brought forward, marched in ranks through the fortress, through the rubble, through the fallen gates and past the corpses. As they drew closer he saw they were his own men – legionaries of the Fourth Standing, hands tied and stripped to the waist. They were marched all the way to the gate and Laigon could only watch helplessly, seeing the faces of men he knew, men he had fought with, bled with.
‘These are all that remain of the Fourth Standing,’ said Kyon. ‘When you fled like a coward, the Iron Tusk was furious at his loss. His retribution was swift and violent, but these forty men have been spared. For now. You can save them, Laigon. All you need do is surrender yourself to me and they will be spared.’
Laigon stared down at the men. They looked beaten, a shadow of what they had been. Once-proud warriors reduced to slaves. But he could save them. Just give himself over and they would be spared. Remain behind this wall and they would be slaughtered before his eyes.
As Laigon watched, Kyon laid his hand on
the shoulder of the nearest prisoner. Laigon could see he was young, smaller than the rest, and as he squinted in the noonday sun he realised who he was seeing. It made his throat tighten in fear.
‘Your son Petrachus also decided to join us,’ Kyon announced. ‘He was most eager to prove himself to the Iron Tusk.’
Laigon slammed his fist against the parapet. He was being left with no choice. His son stood defiantly, suffering his humiliation in silence, and Laigon wanted nothing more than to call out to him. To tell him how proud he was of his son’s bravery.
Instead he steeled himself. He had to face this with dignity.
‘And I should trust you to keep your word?’ he said.
‘What choice do you have?’ said Kyon.
‘What of the rest of my men? What of the defenders of this fortress?’
Kyon shrugged. ‘They will make their own fate. For now, the Iron Tusk just wants you.’
Laigon stepped away from the parapet. As he made his way down he saw Vallion waiting for him at the bottom.
‘Open the gate,’ said Laigon.
Vallion shook his head. ‘You’re not serious?’ he replied. ‘You cannot trust the word of the praetorian. He is the Iron Tusk’s puppet. He will never honour the bargain.’
Laigon had never seen Vallion so disconcerted. Not even in the heat of battle did he show such emotion.
‘That is my son out there,’ said Laigon.
‘These men are your sons too. You led them here. You can’t just abandon them.’
Laigon shook his head. ‘I’m not abandoning them, Vallion. They have you. I know you will lead them just as well as I have.’
‘You cannot just hand yourself over to the Iron Tusk. He will kill you. Slowly.’
‘They have my son!’ he growled. Laigon saw in his friend’s face that Vallion knew he could not win this battle. Laying a hand on his second’s shoulder, he said, ‘Fight to the last, my friend. And may the gods watch over you.’
‘Don’t do this,’ said Vallion.
‘Open the gate,’ Laigon shouted.
With reluctance, the militiamen began unbarring the gate. Vallion stared at Laigon as the gate was swung open, his sadness and frustration clear.
‘You are the centurion now,’ said Laigon. ‘Farewell, my friend.’
Laigon turned, and walked out through the gate to face Kyon. He had been expecting the praetorian to bear an imperious grin, relishing Laigon’s defeat, but to his surprise Kyon looked almost respectful.
As the gate slammed shut behind him, Laigon suddenly felt exposed. He had opened himself up to treachery, bared his throat to the enemy. Now he would find out just how foolish that had been.
The only thing Laigon had for protection was hidden in his belt, and he reached inside, feeling the small pewter figure of Portius in his grip. If the trickster god held him in any regard, now might be the time to show it.
‘I am here,’ Laigon said. ‘Now release them.’
Praetorian Kyon glanced back at the prisoners. Behind each of them was a legionary loyal to the Iron Tusk, sword drawn ready to execute Kyon’s order.
‘Not so simple, I’m afraid,’ said Kyon. ‘These men are still traitors. They have yet to prove their devotion to the Iron Tusk.’
‘I knew I could not trust you,’ said Laigon.
‘On the contrary. You are here and these men have been spared. Now they just need to demonstrate their worth and earn the Iron Tusk’s mercy.’
Praetorian Kyon turned, walking back between the two rows of men.
‘Men of the Fourth Standing,’ he announced. ‘You have a chance at redemption. The Iron Tusk, in his mercy, is willing to give you a chance. All you need do is show your loyalty.’
The legionaries had made the prisoners stand now, each one with the rope that bound his wrists cut. They formed two rows, with Praetorian Kyon standing at the far end of the corridor they made. Laigon already knew what was about to happen. It was a punishment common in the Standings, reserved only for the worst transgressions. He would be made to walk the mill.
‘You will have one strike each,’ said the praetorian. ‘If Centurion Valdyr manages to reach me before you have killed him, the Iron Tusk will show you no mercy.’ A smile crossed Kyon’s face and he laid a hand on Petrachus’ shoulder. ‘Valdyr. If you don’t manage to walk the mill we’ll hang your son’s body from the same gibbet as yours.’
The legionary standing behind each of the prisoners drew his sword. Laigon could see their doubt, their apprehension. After all, he had walked out of a fortress to save their lives. Laigon had been leader of the Fourth Standing. He had recruited these men, trained them, prepared them for war. Now they were being asked to kill him. He should have let them, but if he did not make it to the end of the mill then his son would be slaughtered like a pig. Laigon had no choice.
He walked to the first pair of men. They stared at him, Dragus and Gaiovar. Laigon had recruited both of them as boys. Had practically raised them. Dragus looked mournfully at him, reluctant to strike, unwilling to be the first to betray their former centurion.
‘Do it, boy,’ said Laigon.
It was Gaiovar who struck first, a punch hard enough to make Laigon stumble. Then Dragus hit him, a blow harder than the first. It sent sparks flaring at the periphery of Laigon’s vision, but he managed to stay on his feet. Only another thirty-eight men to go.
When the next five men hit him he felt every blow. The five after that he stopped feeling the pain. Laigon concentrated purely on staying on his feet. Just keep walking, he told himself, get to the end.
Halfway through the mill and Laigon stopped caring. His body was numb, his legs ready to betray him with every step. There was no pain in his face, just emptiness. He could already feel his eyes swelling, teeth loosened, blood flowing freely from his nose.
He took a blow to the jaw, spinning him, and he blacked out for the briefest moment. When he opened his eyes he found himself on all fours. He had lost the figurine of Portius and he scrabbled in the dirt for it, probing the sand until eventually his hand closed around the cold metal.
Two men reached to help him up, but with a shout from Kyon they left him to rise of his own volition. Laigon managed to struggle to his feet, his knees weak, the men surrounding him spinning in his damaged vision. Gripping the figurine tighter, Laigon carried on.
When he was four men from the end of the mill he stumbled, a blow driving him to one knee. The punches were becoming more desperate now as the prisoners saw he was nearing the end of the row. It was them or him.
Laigon looked up, seeing Kyon waiting, hand on the shoulder of Petrachus. There was no pleasure in the praetorian’s expression, no pity either.
As the last legionary hit him, Laigon stumbled forward on hands and knees. He didn’t know if he could stand. Didn’t know if he wanted to. Looking up he saw Petrachus standing there. He wanted to speak, wanted to tell his son how much he loved him, but no words would come from his swollen jaw.
Kyon knelt beside him. ‘Never known a man survive a mill of forty before. That’s quite a feat.’ Laigon could barely hear him through the ringing in his ears. ‘But then you’re a man used to achieving the impossible.’
Laigon tried to stand, but his legs had given in now. Instead he sat back on his knees, head throbbing, body sapped of all its vigour. All he could feel was that figurine in his hand.
Two legionaries grabbed him under the arms, dragging him away from the gate. Behind him he could hear Kyon giving orders. Through the ringing he could not hear what was said, but he knew the last survivors of the Fourth Standing were about to meet their end.
Again he tried crying out to his son. Was Petrachus about to meet the same fate as the Fourth? Laigon didn’t find out before a merciful darkness consumed him.
26
JUST when she thought she was getting used to this place it changed again. One moment they were travelling across a loose shale cliffside, the next they were on an open plain of grass. When grass t
urned to sand and they were suddenly surrounded by open desert, Livia was in awe at the sight, transported back to her time in the Ramadi Wastes. But no sooner had she acclimatised to that than they were trekking along the edge of a rocky cliff, wind whipping the sea beneath an ominous grey sky.
The Hermit took the lead. He wore a battered hat at a jaunty angle and a moth-eaten jacket that apparently shielded him from the conditions, despite its many holes. No matter the state of the elements he set a heady pace, whistling some tune she didn’t recognise, swinging his walking stick like he was out for a summer stroll. Behind her, Hera helped Mandrake along as best she could. He seemed even more befuddled now they had left the safety of the cottage, as though the environment were robbing him of his few remaining faculties. Hera did her best to gently coax him along but at times it was difficult. Despite the trouble she had, Hera stoutly refused any help from Livia, determined to struggle along on her own.
‘So what’s the deal with this place?’ Livia asked the Hermit, finally sick of his whistling. ‘Why does everything shift and change of its own accord?’
The Hermit turned and gave her a wry smile, before splaying his arms and looking upwards. ‘Why does the sun shine? Why does the wind blow? Why do the—’
‘You’re about as much use as shit in a pair of new shoes, you know that?’
The Hermit seemed genuinely hurt. ‘I was only trying to answer your question.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
He looked a little sheepish. ‘Yes, that’s probably what I was getting at in a roundabout way.’
‘It’s madness,’ Livia said.
‘Only because it’s not what you’re used to. This place simply doesn’t obey the same rules as your world. Its geography is not beholden to any law, and neither is time.’
‘Neither is time? What does that mean?’
‘It means a day here could be a year there, could be a century somewhere else.’
Livia felt that hit her like a dart. ‘You mean I could get back home and find everyone I’ve ever known has been dead for a thousand years?’
