Hangman's Gate (War of the Archons 2)

by R. S. Ford

  The Hermit gave her a piteous glance. ‘Firstly, the chances of you getting back home are infinitesimally small. Secondly… yes, I suppose you’re right.’

  She shook her head. ‘You know, you really are a tiny bundle of joy. Has anyone ever told you that?’

  The Hermit smiled, missing her sarcasm. ‘Why yes. Several times, actually.’

  Livia went back to plodding behind the strange little man, wondering if this had been such a good idea after all. Maybe she should have accepted the safety of that cottage in the mountains. Maybe this had been folly all along.

  But of course it wasn’t. A tiny chance was better than no chance.

  As they rounded the jutting headland, the Hermit stopped. Following his gaze Livia saw a monument standing in the middle of some flat grassland. It was a portal, fully ten feet tall, its stone frame carved with strange sigils and sprouting outlandish sculptures. In its centre was a pulsating mass, like some kind of gelatinous pool that occasionally bulged and beat with life.

  ‘Short cut,’ said the Hermit.

  ‘We’re going through that?’ Livia asked, remembering the last time she had passed through a similar portal and the feeling of utter emptiness it had given her.

  ‘Unless you’d rather walk for another hundred years?’ said the Hermit.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Livia replied, taking the lead and striding down the hill towards where the huge gateway stood.

  When she was within twenty yards of it, the sporadic pulsing of the portal’s surface changed to a violent throb. With a hollow popping sound, like when she had to pull her leg from the muddy earth, three figures emerged from the other side.

  They stood tall, unaffected by their journey through the portal. Each was bare-chested, head bedecked in a grey wolf pelt, animal hide covering pitch-black skin. They held spears adorned with feathers and bird bones. Livia had never seen a group of more muscular men, their waists impossibly thin, their shoulders bulging impossibly broad.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Hermit, stepping in front of Livia. ‘We have company.’

  His voice bore none of its previous humour, and it scared her.

  One of the wolfmen came to stand before the Hermit, looking down on the tiny man as though he were about to pounce.

  ‘This portal leads to the sovereign territory of Lord Luphir,’ he said, voice deeper than a well. ‘You will pay tribute.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Hermit nervously. ‘That’s a new one. Last time I passed this way Kastion was in charge.’

  ‘Luphir ousted that bitch from her perch a year ago. Now, are you going to pay tribute or am I going to take your head?’

  The Hermit glanced back at his travelling companions. ‘I… don’t really have much to offer,’ he said.

  The wolfman looked up, seeing Livia standing there. The look on his face made her feel like she was part of a forthcoming banquet.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ said the leader.

  The Hermit shook his head. ‘Luphir won’t want her, trust me. She’d be very stringy. Probably repeat on him later.’

  ‘We’ll let Luphir be the judge,’ said the wolfman, shoving the Hermit out of the way and taking a step towards her.

  Livia backed away, fear rising within her as the huge beast of a man loomed down.

  Suddenly the warrior braced himself, brandishing his spear defensively, as Hera rushed past Livia, sword raised. She went at the wolfman with abandon, and he was at pains to parry her blows. The other warriors rushed forward to meet Hera, their spears held at the ready. Livia turned, seeing Mandrake on the ground, hands over his ears as he rocked back and forth like a scolded child. Livia wanted to shout at the bulging idiot, to scream for him to help, but he was clearly no good for anything.

  The Hermit stood to one side, watching proceedings with a curious look on his face. Hera was going to die and he was just standing there. The woman was surrounded now, her attack turned to defence as the wolfmen jabbed at her with their spears. For every lunge she responded with a parry, but she couldn’t hold them off forever.

  Livia’s rage grew inside her like a wellspring. Something was boiling up within, churning like the strange sea she had looked out on moments before. Roiling like the surface of that portal. This place fuelled a fire within her she couldn’t quench… not even if she’d wanted to.

  She rushed forward, not knowing what she was going to do – just that she had to do something. The first of the wolfmen turned to regard her. He brought his spear about, ready to impale her where she stood.

  Feeling that rage inside, that primal hate, all Livia could do was bellow at the warrior.

  Her voice was a cacophony, all her fury and pent-up aggression funnelled through her mouth. The wolfman was thrust into the air and thrown into the sky until he disappeared into the distant grey cloud.

  Everybody stopped.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Livia said.

  She barely had time to dodge to one side as another spear was thrust at her. Hera jumped in, sword flashing, but one of the wolfmen batted her aside with his muscular arm, a crunching blow that sent her sprawling.

  Two warriors bore down on Livia now. She tried to summon that power once more, tried to channel whatever magic she had conjured, but she was spent. There was nothing left inside her to call upon.

  One of the wolfmen kicked her in the chest and she fell in the dirt, teeth clattering together. From the ground she stared up helplessly at the tip of a spear, waiting for it to slice through her flesh.

  Before the wolfman could impale her, he exploded. Blood spattered Livia’s face and her front was covered in guts. She barely had a chance to lock eyes with the last wolfman, who looked as surprised as she was, before he too exploded into red ribbons of flesh and ichor.

  Livia wiped the gore from her eyes and found the Hermit standing there. He was pointing his walking stick as though ready to shoot an arrow from it. Instead he smiled, spinning it in his hand, then leaning on it jauntily.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ Livia said, rising to her feet. More guts slipped from her frock and spattered onto the ground. ‘No more lies. No more vague, ephemeral riddles. Who the bloody hell are you?’

  The Hermit nodded, as though she had found him out. As though he’d been hiding some big secret but Livia had gotten to the bottom of it and now he had to confess.

  ‘My name is Durius,’ said the Hermit. ‘Though in Canbria you would know me best as the god Urien the Trickster. Hera would call me Duchor, although the legends they ascribe to me in the Ramadi are invariably false. It’s all very bloodthirsty up there and they do have a tendency to exaggerate.’

  ‘You’re a bloody Archon?’ Livia said.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Durius. ‘But the more pressing question is – who are you?’

  Livia shook her head. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What you just did. We all saw it. Unbridled power booming from your tonsils. Only the most devout sorcerer should be capable of that, and yet you come from a land that has been cut off from magic for a hundred years.’

  ‘Well, you’re the expert,’ she said. ‘You tell me.’

  Durius placed a finger to his lips, pondering the problem. ‘Could be that you spent so long with Innellan inside your head you took a part of her with you. That’s rare but not unheard of.’

  Livia shook her head. ‘No, that bitch is gone. Completely. I had power in the other place, the mortal land, and that was her acting through my body. But here, it’s just… me.’

  ‘Well then, I have no idea,’ said Durius with a shrug.

  ‘Great,’ Livia replied. ‘All-seeing, all-knowing Archon, and you don’t know where my power comes from.’

  ‘I’m a god, my dear. But no one’s perfect.’ With that he flipped his stick into the cruck of his arm and headed towards the portal.

  Hera had managed to get Mandrake to his feet now, and they followed Durius to the edge of the pulsating door.

  ‘Any surprises on the other side we should
be ready for?’ asked Livia.

  Durius turned. ‘Isn’t that the point of surprises? You don’t get to find out in advance.’

  With a wink he jumped through the portal and disappeared.

  Hera stumbled past her, looking up with a defeated expression. ‘Count yourself lucky,’ she said. ‘I had weeks of this before you turned up.’ With that, she and Mandrake stumbled through the magical gateway.

  Livia gave one last look around at the mournful sky above and the remains of the bodies on the floor.

  Well, she wasn’t going to get any answers waiting around here. Stepping forward, she let the portal take her.

  27

  The Cordral Extent, 106 years after the Fall

  THE closer they got to the Crooked Jaw the more ominous the mountains seemed. Ctenka had set off on his noble quest to find an army to defend Dunrun. Now he was returning with half a dozen criminals and two mute children. That might well have been classed as a failure in some people’s eyes.

  If the armies of the Shengen Empire weren’t already at the gates of Dunrun they soon would be, and Ctenka Sunatra, along with a bunch of poorly trained militiamen, would be all that stood in their way.

  The closer he came to those mountains, the more it dawned on him that he was going to die.

  The fortress of Dunrun appeared at the foot of the mountains all too quickly. Ctenka found himself checking the road behind, wondering if it was too late for him to make a run for it. But there was no escape now, or at least that was what he told himself. The old Ctenka might have wanted to take the coward’s way out, but he was done with all that.

  When they finally reached the fortress, the gates lay open. Ermund pulled up his horse at the front, and sat there watching the open gateway.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Ctenka. Perhaps the Shengen army had already ransacked the place. Perhaps they were even still waiting inside.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ said Ermund, nudging his horse forward.

  Ctenka followed him through the open gate. The courtyard was empty, but there were no signs of a fight. It was like the place had just been abandoned. Maybe it had. Maybe the Great Eastern Militia had turned tail and fled in the face of the Shengen forces.

  Ermund dismounted as the prisoners stumbled into the courtyard, collapsing on the floor. It had been a hard trek, and the men were on their last legs. Of all of them, Josten seemed in the best shape, but after all he had been through it was clear he was fashioned from harder stuff than most men.

  ‘Do you think we’re too late?’ said Ctenka.

  ‘How would I know?’ said Ermund, moving towards the well that sat in the middle of the courtyard.

  When Ctenka didn’t answer Ermund turned and looked at him expectantly. ‘So? Go and find out where everyone is.’

  As Ermund pulled up a bucket of water for the prisoners, Ctenka did as he was told. He gripped his sword in a sweaty palm as he moved towards the main barrack building, thinking that any minute half the Shengen army might burst out of it and cut him into so much offal. As he approached, he thought he could hear talking.

  Ctenka paused at the door, craning his neck to listen. He could hear muffled voices raised in anger, but no one he recognised. Surely this couldn’t be the Shengen army? Surely their soldiers would be all over this place like maggots on a rotting dog if they had already broken through?

  Taking a breath, he opened the door. Ctenka was hit in the face by the raucous noise, but he was relieved to see people he knew.

  What looked like the entirety of Dunrun’s militia sat around the long dining table in the mess. Marshal Ziyadin was at its centre, with a harried expression. Since Ctenka had been away it looked like the man had aged ten years. Several of the militia seemed to be calling for him to order a retreat and every man looked desperate and scared. Ziyadin had little to say, but one of the Shengen deserters seemed opposed to the idea of fleeing. He sat in his armour, which was now painted a familiar shade of red, stoically taking every shouted barb from the militiamen.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ one of them cried.

  ‘This is insane, we’re all going to die,’ said another.

  ‘All we’re doing is delaying the inevitable,’ said one more, who Ctenka recognised as Fat Diyazim. There was no wonder he would be among those ready to mutiny.

  The Shengen warrior continued to sit calmly amid the tumult but could be silent no more. ‘The centurion gave up his life to try and save forty men,’ he said. ‘And you would not sacrifice yours to save thousands? I had heard the men of the Cordral were better than this. I did not think you cowards.’

  That shamed them into silence for a moment.

  Ctenka realised that Laigon was not present, and his second in command spoke with authority on behalf of the Shengen. Already they had lost the most capable commander among them. Now probably wasn’t the best time for Ctenka to enter and announce he and Ermund had failed in their mission. But then Ctenka’s timing had never been the best.

  ‘Sunatra,’ said a voice. One of the militia had spotted him.

  ‘All-Mother be praised,’ said Marshal Ziyadin, rising to his feet. ‘You’re back. Tell me you’ve brought reinforcements. Tell me we are to be relieved.’

  ‘Well…’ Ctenka didn’t really have the heart. He glanced around the room, every eye on him, expecting, or even demanding, he give them good news.

  Ermund walked into the room behind him, and it was like a huge weight had been lifted.

  ‘I am sorry, Marshal,’ said the southerner. ‘But we have failed.’

  ‘Failed?’ said Ziyadin. ‘But you must have brought someone?’ He stood, pushing past the militia in the crowded room and making his way outside.

  Ctenka followed Ziyadin as he stumbled into the courtyard, seeing half a dozen bedraggled men in chains drinking heartily from a bucket, and two children, still atop a horse, staring around them like they were in a stupor.

  ‘Is this it?’ Ziyadin said. ‘How many days have you been away? And this is all you could find?’

  The rest of the militia had spilled out into the courtyard now, seeing the shabby gang of prisoners on their knees. One of them laughed, another wailed, pulling at his hair.

  ‘We’re dead,’ one of them said. ‘We’re all going to die.’

  That sparked a wave of despair. Ctenka got the dread feeling that a mutiny was about to kick off, when one of the militia pointed through the open gates to the west.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Along the road.’

  Everyone moved towards the gate. Ctenka followed, peering past the other militiamen. A cloud of dust had risen in the distance, heralding the arrival of someone. By the shape of the cloud it looked like a sizeable group.

  They waited in silence, every man peering intently to the west. Eventually, when they could see a group of marching men, some of the militia cheered.

  ‘It’s a force from Kantor,’ one of them said.

  ‘The Desert Blades,’ said another.

  Suddenly there was a wave of excitement. If Queen Suraan had sent her elite fighting force then surely they were saved. But as the marching column came nearer, their hopes were dashed. The flag they flew was not the rising sun symbol of the Desert Blades but the crossed scimitars of the Kantor Militia.

  Nevertheless, the men of Dunrun moved aside to allow the marching column to enter. They were led by a man on horseback, beard oiled, uniform immaculate, in contrast to the dishevelled appearance of his men. Ctenka counted roughly two hundred warriors, but from the look of them they weren’t seasoned campaigners. He could see the pale faces of raw recruits among their number and not a few old men. It seemed this new contingent was the same standard of waif and stray as already manned Dunrun.

  ‘This is it?’ bellowed Ziyadin. ‘This is what Queen Suraan sends me to defend her nation?’

  The man on horseback glared down at Ziyadin with an imperious look.

  ‘I am Marshal Aykan Cem of Her Radiant Majesty’s Third Royal Militia. I a
ssume you are Ziyadin?’

  ‘Marshal Ziyadin,’ he replied. ‘And where are the rest of you?’

  ‘This is what could be spared, Marshal. Count yourself lucky you have this many. I am to assess the situation then—’

  ‘Assess the fucking situation?’ Ziyadin’s red face looked ready to burst like a melon. ‘We’ve already lost two gates. The next attack is imminent. We need the Desert Blades. We need an army, not this…’ He motioned pathetically to the two hundred who stood around in the courtyard.

  Aykan Cem’s imperious look wavered. Clearly he had not expected the rumours of an attacking army to be true.

  ‘Fear not, Marshal,’ he said, climbing down from his horse. ‘I am ready to take charge.’

  ‘You’re what?’ Ziyadin’s brow furrowed. ‘I am in charge here. This is my posting.’

  Aykan glanced around the dilapidated fort. ‘And what a posting it is. Look at this place.’

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me—’

  ‘Enough!’ The Shengen deserter stepped forward. ‘We don’t have long until the next attack. We must consolidate our forces and prepare—’

  ‘What is this?’ said Aykan. ‘A Shengen warrior walks free? Why is this man not in chains?’

  ‘He…’ Ziyadin didn’t have an answer.

  ‘I am Shengen no longer. My name is Centurion Vallion of the Red Standing. And my men are ready to defend this place to the last.’

  Aykan shook his head. Ziyadin seemed unable to explain himself and now Ermund stepped forward, hands raised, ready to be the great conciliator. Clearly there was nothing Ctenka Sunatra could add now that Duke Harlaw of Canbria was about to get involved.

  As the men argued, he walked to where Lena and Castiel still sat patiently, and helped them down from the horse.

  ‘Come,’ he said, as voices rose behind him. ‘Shall we go and find something to eat?’

  Neither of them seemed too concerned, but Ctenka decided he’d best act like the only responsible adult in this whole damned fortress.

  Taking each of them by the hand he led them through the Hangman’s Gate and out into the courtyard. As soon as they caught sight of the Chapel Gate, both the children let go of his hands and ran straight towards it.