by R. S. Ford
‘This place is a graveyard,’ Livia breathed. ‘Was there a war here long ago?’
Durius inclined his head. ‘Yes and no,’ he replied.
‘Which is it?’ Livia snapped, losing patience with his cryptic twaddle.
‘In this place the war was an ancient one. Elsewhere it may only have happened a day or two ago. Let’s just say what’s done is done and let that be an end to it.’
Livia was happy to do just that, sick of asking for a straight answer to anything Durius said. Besides, she’d need all her energy if she was going to reach that tower’s summit. From a distance it had seemed huge, but now they were almost at its base the thing looked higher than any structure she could imagine.
When finally they reached the foot of it, Livia looked up. The top of the Blue Tower was impossible to see, but Durius for one was undeterred. Without a word he walked inside, and they followed him beneath a huge archway crested by winged seraphs. They appeared to shift in aspect as she passed beneath, closer to demons than angels.
‘If this place is so important, why is no one guarding it?’ Livia asked as they made their way up the winding stairs.
‘There were once guardians here, servants who followed each of the Archons, loyal slaves specially picked to ensure no one entered here. What’s left of them is rotting out on that field. For now, no one guards the Heartstone.’
‘So what’s to stop someone passing through into the mortal realm?’
‘All-out war,’ Durius replied. ‘Three Archons have already gone through. As yet the consequences of that are unknown. The rest are merely waiting, plotting, deciding what their next move should be. Should Siff fail to bring Armadon and Innellan back to the fold I fully expect this place will become very busy.’
‘So why doesn’t one of you go and help her?’
Durius winked. ‘Waiting. Plotting. Deciding. Don’t you listen to what anyone tells you?’
‘When they talk bloody sense I do,’ she replied.
Durius found that one amusing, and he skipped along up the stairs with renewed vigour.
Livia saved her breath for the climb. She helped Hera carry Mandrake, who had managed to calm himself, the pain he previously felt now miraculously gone.
‘At least he’s no longer suffering,’ Livia said, as they struggled with the weight of him.
‘The Iron Tusk must have healed himself of his wounds in the mortal realm,’ Hera said, her face still marred with concern.
‘That’s good… isn’t it?’
‘For now,’ Hera replied.
On they went, feeling the weight of their burden with every laboured step. Just as Livia thought she could go no further, that her legs would not allow her another step, they finally reached the top.
Despite her fatigue, Livia looked out, open-mouthed. She could see for miles, rolling country, soaring mountains, blasted desert. A myriad of vistas in one. But the sight paled in comparison to what lay at the pinnacle of the tower.
The Heartstone was like a giant diamond, easily as big as a man. Every facet shone a different colour, winking in the sunlight, shifting and changing as Livia moved around the dais on which it rested. It pulled her towards it with an irresistible attraction like a long-lost lover. It wanted her and she felt the same. Desiring it. Needing it. Beyond the veneer of that stone lay her homeland, and she could almost hear it calling to her.
Livia reached out to the Heartstone, her fingers tingling as though the stone were trying to take her hand and lead her home.
‘What if I just… What if I just went through?’ she asked.
‘Through to what?’ Durius replied. ‘You have no physical form there anymore. Innellan now possesses your earthly body. You could wind up drifting as a lost spirit for the rest of time.’
‘You know that for sure?’
‘I don’t know anything for sure, but it’s as likely an outcome as any.’
Livia felt the Heartstone pulse with life at her presence, trying to communicate with her, trying to tell her something.
‘What’s it doing?’ she said.
‘The Heartstone has a story to tell,’ Durius replied. ‘You just have to listen.’
Livia closed her eyes, silently waiting for the answer to a question she hadn’t asked. Willing the Heartstone to tell her.
* * *
She sat on a dark throne, white hair cascading down her shoulders, crimson gown flowing to the floor. Kneeling before her were the fallen masters of the Ramadi death cults. Blood regents, warlords, eidolons all. Former rulers of the desert now subjugated to her will.
Innellan rose like a snake from its lair, and climbed the stairs down from that onyx throne. She passed the servile leaders of her army of fanatics, across a darkened hallway and out through a high arch to the balcony that overlooked her realm. The desert air was scorching, but she did not feel it. All she felt was victory.
This place was hers. A land ripe for the picking, and pick it she had. Every mortal in the realm now worshipped her as a god. Every prayer was in her name, and she could feel them filling her with power.
But it wasn’t enough.
It could never be enough.
Innellan turned her eye to the south. For centuries the Ramadi cults had fought one another. It was the only thing that had kept their neighbours safe. But they were safe no longer. She would mobilise, unite, conquer.
And there would be nothing to stand in her way.
* * *
‘She is preparing for war,’ Livia said, reeling from the vision, feeling the Heartstone releasing her from its pull. ‘We have to do something. The Archons have to do something.’
Durius raised a hand to placate her. ‘Someone will,’ he said. ‘Siff will not stop until Innellan is defeated. Or until she dies trying to stop her. But first she must defeat Armadon.’
Livia looked over to Hera and Mandrake, both kneeling on the marble floor. Hera cradled her lover as his lips moved in a soundless rant.
‘I need to see,’ Livia said, turning back to the Heartstone.
This time it pulsed brighter; Livia felt somehow she had gained the artefact’s trust. As though she were part of it now, and it a part of her. They were connected, and with that joining the Heartstone showed her what she asked for…
* * *
The brute raged against the gate. It was all that stood between him and conquest of the western nations. He roared from within a horned helm, the sound echoing through the mountains. At his back was an army built to conquer. United behind their immortal master and devoted to executing his will. All that stood in their way was the last fragile gate of a fortress.
Beyond it a tired militia. Ordinary men, some too scared to stand.
Before them was a woman: stout, resolute, but… she was wounded. Weakened.
Where the warlord commanded an army’s worship, she stood alone. All that might stop this monster. All that could save the west from devastation.
* * *
Livia fell back from the Heartstone. ‘They’re all going to die,’ she whispered, staring at the stone.
‘Well, it certainly looks that way,’ Durius said. ‘When Armadon finally breaks through the mountain pass, he and Innellan will start a war that will ravage the entire continent.’
‘There must be something you can do to stop them.’
Durius shrugged. ‘What would you suggest? Shall I fling myself into the mortal realm and join in the fray?’ His expression turned incredulous when she didn’t argue with that idea. ‘Do I look like some god of war?’
‘Is that it?’ Livia was on her feet now, shouting at this little man. This god. ‘That’s all you’re going to say? There must be something you can do.’
Durius approached the Heartstone, staring into its depths. It reacted to his gaze, the facets dulling, becoming more transparent. Inside Livia could see a core of roiling smoke, becoming ever more agitated at Durius’ presence.
‘It’s been so long,’ he said, staring intently into the stone.
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‘Since what?’ Livia asked.
He dragged his gaze away. ‘Since I listened,’ he said. ‘Since I felt the exquisite pleasure.’
‘For fuck’s sake, of what?’
‘Of worship. Of you mortals falling to your knees in adoration. Not that I’d feel it now. Not that there’s anyone praying to little, insignificant Durius. And without it I’m powerless to do anything. I can’t help you.’
‘Try,’ she demanded. ‘Please just try. Listen, just for a moment. Maybe there’s someone. Anyone.’
Durius shook his head. ‘It is forbidden.’
‘Balls to forbidden,’ Livia cried. ‘You said yourself, the rest of the Archons are just sitting on their hands, weighing up their next move. Aren’t you supposed to be the trickster god? Aren’t you supposed to be one move ahead of them all?’
Durius stared at her, his despondent look gradually becoming a gleeful smile.
‘You might just be right, Livia Harrow,’ he said, turning back to the Heartstone.
He reached out a hand towards it, closing his eyes. Livia could see the mist inside become increasingly violent, until it swirled in a furious vortex.
‘I… I have been all but forgotten,’ Durius said. ‘Looked over in favour of warrior gods and temptresses. But…’ the smile on his face widened. ‘But there is one.’
‘One worshipper?’ It didn’t sound like much to Livia.
‘Yes, one,’ Durius replied. ‘But it could be all I need.’
34
LAIGON sat, still tethered in the tent, as the Standings of the Shengen army mustered for a final push. He heard prayers, as a thousand men dropped to their knees in front of the Iron Tusk. A warlord revered like a god.
He had been a fool to think that he could defy such a man. To think that he could lead a few legionaries in defence of the Cordral Extent. That coming to this place would make one iota of difference. He had led them to their deaths, and what did he have to show for it?
In his hand he could still feel that pewter figurine, cold against his palm. No matter how hard he squeezed, it was still cold to the touch. What good would such an empty trinket do him? But then, what good had any of this done him?
Feeling as foolish as the first time he had tried, Laigon closed his eyes and prayed.
‘You’re not fucking listening, are you?’ he said. Laigon had never been prone to cursing, but this seemed like just the occasion cursing was created for. ‘But if you are, if you’re up there, I need you to show it. Show me this wasn’t all for nothing. Prove that there’s someone there, that this was all worth it. Gods! Tell me to shut up if it makes you feel any better, but please tell me something.’
Nothing.
He knew he was wasting his breath. No one could hear him. All Laigon could hope for now was that the Iron Tusk would have him executed before he was forced to witness the fall of every kingdom in the west. Deep down, he knew that would never happen. The Iron Tusk needed him. It was only a matter of time before Laigon would succumb to his will.
‘Damn you then,’ he whispered to no one. ‘Damn you, Portius, and damn all the—’
The figurine, cold for all this time, suddenly burned white hot in his fist. Laigon cried out, dropping the tiny statue to the ground, feeling the pain still stinging his palm.
He lifted his hand to examine it and was suddenly shocked by two things – first that there was no mark on his flesh, second that his bonds had miraculously come loose.
Laigon stared at his hands. Then slowly he climbed to his feet, using the prop post for support. Looking down he saw the rope that had bound his hands sitting in a neat little pile next to the figurine of Portius.
This couldn’t be. The gods had never listened to any of his prayers. They had abandoned the world long ago, no more than legend.
He bent down, picked up the figurine and stared at it. It stared back, that portly face still looking full of mischief. Of all the gods that had chosen to favour him it was the jester. What luck. Laigon Valdyr, Centurion of the Fourth, favoured by the trickster god. He would have laughed, but there was little to raise his mirth.
What now? Escape? Surely he could not fight. There was an army in front of him. An immortal warlord. Even if he had the favour of the gods, of just one god, he could never hope to vanquish the Iron Tusk in battle. No, he had to flee. Head back along the Skull Road and claim his freedom beyond the Shengen Empire.
But Laigon could not leave. Not when his wife and son were still slaves to a tyrant.
Gripping the figure of Portius tight in his hand, Laigon stumbled from the tent. He was still unsteady on his feet, head filled with a fug. Through his one swollen eye he could barely see, but out in the bright sunlight there was little to see anyway. The entire Shengen army had advanced on the fort; in the distance he could hear their noise resounding along the causeway. The sound of the Iron Tusk bellowing his anger against those that chose to defy his will echoed in the distance.
The camp was ordered, tents erected in regimented lines as he would expect from such disciplined troops. If Petrachus and Verrana were here they would be towards the rear, close to the supply tents.
He stumbled along the pass, kicking over a discarded pot as he went. It clattered along the ground, the sound bouncing off the valley walls. Laigon paused, waiting for someone to come racing to see what the commotion was about, but no one seemed to care. A camp follower was cleaning plates beneath an awning and looked up at him as he staggered by. Laigon stopped, staring at the woman, expecting her to cry out in alarm at any moment, but instead she looked on blankly. Somehow she had not succumbed to the temptation of the tyrant of Shengen. Perhaps this was the sign he had been hoping for. If one of his fellow Shengen had resisted the allure of the Iron Tusk then maybe there were others.
As though knowing what he might be searching for, she pointed along the causeway. There was a single tent at the end of the camp, and he shuffled on towards it. When he reached the tent he could hear the mumbled sounds of prayer emanating from within. Though their voices were muffled, Laigon recognised Petrachus and Verrana instantly.
When last they had seen him they had proclaimed him a traitor. Nothing had changed since then, but Laigon was not about to give up. He was determined not to abandon them to the whims of a warlord, no matter the cost.
When he opened the flap to the tent neither his wife nor his son looked up at him. Laigon waited for several moments before their prayers petered out. He had to listen to them begging for victory, lauding the Iron Tusk, pledging their undying devotion to that brute. It was all Laigon could do to listen to their litanies, but still he stood and watched them, fighting back the tears.
Eventually, Petrachus ceased his prayers and looked up, sensing someone watching him. Upon seeing his father his expression turned from serenity to hate, lips creasing into a snarl, eyes burning with hatred.
‘You,’ he snapped. ‘What are you doing here, traitor?’
Verrana opened her eyes and on seeing her husband she cringed in fear, crawling away to the far end of the tent, terrified of what Laigon might do.
He stepped inside, kneeling down before them. ‘It’s me,’ he said, almost pleading with them. ‘Your husband. Your father.’
‘You are no one,’ said Petrachus, rising to his feet.
‘I am your—’
Petrachus lashed out in anger. The blow was a swift one, but Laigon snatched Petrachus’ wrist before his son could strike him.
‘I am your father,’ Laigon growled, pulling Petrachus close, holding the boy to him, squeezing him in a loving embrace.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ Verrana cried. Laigon could see she was terrified.
‘I would never…’ Petrachus squirmed in his grip but still Laigon refused to let go. He could not release his son. He knew that if he did he might never win him back.
‘Then why are you here, traitor?’ Verrana screamed.
Laigon released his son. Petrachus scrambled back to the corner of the tent, clutch
ing his mother close.
‘Because you are mine,’ said Laigon. ‘Because I am yours. We are a family, Verrana, we belong together. All three of us.’
‘No,’ she spat. ‘You are a monster. A betrayer.’
‘You have been poisoned,’ said Laigon.
‘You are the poison. Get away from us.’
Laigon stood. He watched as his wife cradled his son in fear. In that moment he felt his heart break. They had been taken from him. Stolen by the Iron Tusk, and there was nothing he could think to do that would win them back.
He turned and left them. For a moment he looked east along miles of valley to Shengen and his home. Along the Skull Road. It would have been so easy to take it. To leave all this behind and start anew. But there would be no new beginnings for Laigon Valdyr. Only endings.
He turned back towards the fortress of Dunrun.
Squeezing the figure of Portius tight in his fist, Laigon set off west. The warmth of the small idol filled his palm, radiated up his arm, filling his chest, his limbs; even his head began to clear. His stooped gait straightened, becoming a powerful stride. Laigon could see everything sharply now. If he was to free his family from bondage he had to claim one last victory. One impossible victory.
He approached the first gate of Dunrun, the timbers lying blackened and burned. Corpses had been moved to the side of the pass and left to rot in the sun. When he crossed beneath the arch he saw the Shengen army ahead, the ranks of the Fifth Standing waiting at the rear. Laigon gave no warning, no greeting as he walked past them, and for their part they ignored him at first. Soon though, heads began to turn, whispers spread of his appearance, travelling through the ranks like a forest fire.
On he walked, hearing the legionaries’ growing disquiet. Men turned up ahead as they heard of his coming. Legionaries, centurions and praetorians alike turned to witness him, faces twisted in disgust. Someone said ‘traitor’, another ‘betrayer’, but no one made a move to stop him.
As he reached the next broken gate he could see the collapsed stones had been moved aside to create a passage through. More legionaries watched his approach now, but Laigon kept his faith, gripping the figure of Portius, its warmth invigorating him.
