by Mike Morris
Seven days had passed since Kara had died. Physically, he was as strong as he ever had been — the sword had seen to that. His stomach was full from catching easy game and he had plenty of water as well as rest. There’d been no pursuit from Eshtery. Probably Jahn had thought him dead from the fall and for that, and that alone, he was grateful.
Mentally was a different matter. Haunted by Kara's death and consumed by his rage, he thought of nothing but the leaders of the five nations responsible for the bounty and fantasied about how he'd make them pay. Ryanna of Ascalonia, tucked up in her castle, thinking herself safe behind its high walls, not knowing that the Legion used to play a game working out the best ways to get in. She'd wake to his knife on her throat. Old King Legus, back in Fascaly after years of exile, still fat and more concerned about the next conquest for his bed instead of the dangers lurking in the shadows. Perhaps when Rane showed him his heart, he'd realise his folly. The Chief of the Nortlunders used to be Ingarra but she'd been old before Rane had run away from the world so who knew if she still controlled the cold mountains. But whoever warmed the seat of power would find Rane whispering in their ear. Xiao Jia, Emperor of Naijin, would be harder to reach. The Naijins were fearsome fighters and Xiao’s thousand bodyguards were the deadliest of all but they'd be no match for Kibon. He'd leave Souska for last. The Southern Islands were tribal. It would take time to find who held sway but Rane was patient as death.
For now though, Candra was within reach. Candra and the barracks. His barracks.
He wrapped his sword up in a battered old cloak he'd found abandoned on the way and slung it under his arm. He hoped that would be enough to disguise Kibon while he was in the city. The scar was harder to hide, but he bandaged his hand with a strip of cloth. He could claim a recent injury if anyone asked. Not that he intended to get into too many conversations. He knew of ten thousand reasons why that would be a bad idea.
By the time he reached the main road, it was already full of traders taking livestock and produce into the city's various markets, despite the early hour of the day. He heard no mention of the Legion. No word of demons.
Others flocked to the city looking for work, driven from their homes across the country by poverty and the real threat of starvation, carrying all they owned on their backs or in their hands and what little hope left in their hearts. The farmers and traders looked on this traffic with suspicion, worried about what would be stolen if they weren't careful. Rane saw more than one whip lash out at a suspected thief and, more often than not, the refugees were encouraged to move on with a curse or two.
Eyes followed Rane as he weaved his way through the traffic. He didn't blame anyone for that — he knew he looked like a vagrant — but he quickened his pace all the same, eager to be swallowed up once more by the city. Anonymity amongst the crowds was going to be his greatest defence.
The road became more congested the closer they got to Candra, as buildings sprang on either side of the road; shacks no better than what had been at Eshtery, and some much worse, looked like a good wind or some heavy rain would be the end of them. They were homes for the desperate who'd already fled to Candra but had found its streets just as harsh as the villages they'd left behind. The threat of impending violence seemed to grow with each new dwelling as filthy lives did what they could to survive. More than one whored themselves by the side of the road and the price for their bodies ranged from a copper coin to a loaf of bread. So much for the supposed golden age of peace. Rane’s anger rose once again as he wondered what it had all been for.
The shacks and shanties ran right up against the city walls, where men had bled and died for this future. What could be seen of the walls were scarred and broken, burnt and bruised. The Rastaks had done their foul work well against them and, if an enemy were to strike again, they had little strength left to withstand another assault.
The West Gate to the city was wide-open and watched by a trio of guards with their minds on other things. Rane needn't have worried about being recognised, as they’d no intention of stopping anyone or checking anything. The flood of people passing through their station couldn't have been stopped even if they’d tried.
Once past the gates, the sounds and the smells of the city were overwhelming. He'd been too long hidden away with Kara to deal with the hundreds of chattering voices smothering the air; all haggling and bartering, laughing and joking, shouting and swearing. He winced at the stench — sweat, mud, shit, mixed with coal fires and cooking aromas, with the stink from the river to make something that was uniquely Candra.
The narrow streets had grown even narrower since he'd last been in the capital. At any moment, Rane felt one of the buildings could topple down on top of him as he made his way towards the river. Claustrophobia nagged away at him but there was little he could do about it. Wishing to be back at his cottage and with Kara wouldn't change anything. The reward posters plastered everywhere didn’t help matters. Some had little gaggles of people gathered around them while others looked long forgotten. Hate-filled slogans were dubbed on other walls, cursing the Legion and all who fought in it. But there were no clues as to why they had become such targets. Still, it was a reminder of the danger he was in. Rane took a deep breath of putrid air and walked on, head down.
He stepped onto black soil, and sky opened up around him. The three blocks ahead of him were nothing but ashes under foot, with only the odd chimney or corner wall standing up like tombstones amid a scattering of rubble. Soon the ground would be reclaimed but for now the war wound was too raw for anyone to attempt a renovation. Rane could almost hear the screams of those who'd died, their ghosts too traumatised to let go of what was once their homes.
The war had made so many people do desperate things to survive, to fight for just one more day, so why had the Legion become the hunted? Was what they had done any worse than the men who torched people in their homes? How many had lived because of the Legion? Ungrateful bastards. His fingers twitched at the thought, Kibon heavy in his hand.
Back amongst the tight streets, he pushed his way through until he reached the Tryste.
The grey sky clung to the tops of the buildings as Rane headed for the Queen's Bridge a mile upriver, the main crossing point and the bridge that would take him directly to the barracks.
The Queen's Bridge at least looked unchanged as it looped from one bank of the Tryste to the other. Built for Ryanna's great-grandmother, it was a masterpiece of engineering and design, wide enough for two carriages to pass each other side by side, high enough for a warship to pass underneath unrestricted and strong enough to withstand heavy winds and heavier traffic. Its grandeur never failed to impress, but it too was marred with tattered and faded reward posters declaring the Legion outlaw. Rane hurried over, keen to be on his way from Candra as soon as possible.
The crowds grew the nearer Rane got to the Legion's barracks, if that were possible, and with it came an air of excitement. Rane moved to the side of the street, wriggling his way through gaps where he could, forcing himself when that wasn't possible.
He stopped dead in his tracks once he entered the square in front of the barracks. There must have been a thousand people crammed into the courtyard, rammed like cattle shoulder-to-shoulder. The air was filled with a cacophony of screamed curses and insults as the mob bayed for blood.
Gallows lined each side of the square. Most had corpses dangling from them, long dead and half rotten. Rane couldn't get close enough to see any faces, but he had no doubt all had been Legionnaires.
In front of him the barracks stood as black as death, a towering mausoleum for their lost hopes and lost honour, with nothing but broken windows, shattered doors and walls covered in scrawls of hate and venom. He guessed the gallows were filled with whoever had been housed there. He could only pray that Jefferson wasn't amongst the dead.
Even so, the crowd hadn't gathered to watch old corpses swing in the wind or cheer in front of a ruined building. Not when there was a fresh scaffold and three empty nooses. The ropes danced
in the breeze above a stage waiting for another grim performance.
Rane was jostled this way and that as a sick feeling spread through his guts, his arms pined to his sides by the weight of the mob. Trapped, he had no option but to watch.
It wasn’t long before a hush fell over the crowd as necks craned forward, eager to see.
A priest, a short, broad woman stepped out of the barracks. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing shaved sides and sunray tattoos disappeared down her neck and into her heavy woollen robes. She paused; milking the moment, ensuring every eye was on her. Rane recognised her instantly — Mother Singosta, of the Church of Odason, God of Life. She was the head of the Inquisition. Heretic hanger. Witch hunter. Mage killer.
She continued to the front of the scaffold, while four city guards marched three hooded prisoners out behind her, pikes prodding anyone who slowed as they went. They had to be Legionnaires. A final guard followed on behind, carrying a bundle of some sort in his arms.
Rane clawed his way closer, heart racing, fury building, his hand on Kibon's hilt. The voice urged him to throw caution to the wind and carve his way to the front, telling him everyone in the square deserved to die. All the while, he watched the procession make their way to the top of the scaffold.
"Citizens!" cried Singosta, eyes shining full of fervour, from the front of the platform. "All good people of Candra, loyal subjects to our great Queen, Ryanna. I stand before you as Odason's servant so you can witness justice being done. Witness the balance put right. Witness the death of Heras' creations. Witness the execution of evil disguised as heroes."
On that signal, the guards pulled the hoods off the prisoners. The woman was a fellow Captain, Aeger. The other two were familiar but he couldn't put names to them and he hated himself for that. Whoever they were, they deserved better.
The three Legionnaires looked weak and disorientated, startled by the sunlight even on such a grey day. No doubt they'd been kept in the dungeons for far too long.
The crowd went berserk at the sight of them, delighting in their misery. Rane wanted to kill them all.
Singosta threw her arms wide above her head, and at once the crowd quietened. "The three standing before you were once heroes, celebrated from Nortlund to Naijin to here in Ascalonia. Little did we know that they had cavorted with Heras herself, taking from her terrible powers and killing in her name. Using magic."
"Bastards!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Scum!"
"Hang 'em!"
"Demon-lovers!"
The priest nodded along to the cries, as if agreeing with every one. Again the hand signalled for silence. "I feel your fury. I understand your anger. By using magic, they betrayed us. Because of their Godsdamned bargain, they endangered us all. Now, Odason is a God of forgiveness, but I ask you, should we forgive them?"
"No!" a thousand voices chorused.
"Shall we let them walk away and pretend they did no wrong?"
"No!"
Singosta knew how to play to a crowd, making the most of the mob's attention. Some priest. He was going to enjoy sliding Kibon through her heart. He squirmed and pushed, trying to force his way to the front of the crowd but the bodies were jammed together. He might as well have tried pushing through a wall.
Singosta grinned at the crowd. "Shall we make them hang?"
The roar from the square shook the very air. Rane had never heard such pleasure voiced before. Trapped, unable to move, he had no option but to watch as the Legionnaires' heads were placed in the nooses. A drum roll began from somewhere. Rane's heart raced in time with it. The voice screamed for him to attack, kill everyone, slash a path to his comrades, but then the trap door fell away and the three prisoners dropped. The crack of necks breaking could still be heard above the cacophony in the square. One by one, the Legionnaires twitched and shuffled their feet until finally they were still.
Tears ran down Rane's cheeks as the crowd rejoiced. But the horror had only just begun.
It was easy enough to miss at first, as Aeger gently twisted on her noose. It could have been the wind blowing, making her turn. But then her leg kicked out and her knee lifted. She was still alive. The other two jerked back to life with her, kicking frantically against the air, trying to get free, as the rope stretched their necks.
The mob had noticed too and screams started cutting through the celebrations.
But Singosta obviously wasn't surprised. This freak show was what she'd planned. "See their demon magic at work? Even the rope can't kill them — such is Heras' gift. But we know the source of their power. Behold!"
The last soldier stepped to the front of the stage with the wrapped bundle in his arms. Singosta whipped the cloth away, revealing three curved swords.
Next to the swords were gloves, which Singosta put on with a flourish. She picked up one of the swords and held it aloft. The steel was dark grey in colour as if blemished in some way. "This is their power. Heras' magic is trapped within this blade. Because of this, these traitors can’t die like you or I!"
The thousands of spectators in the square were silent once more.
Singosta walked over to Aeger, slashing the sword through the air as she went. She stopped in front of the Legionnaire and lifted her head so she could see the blade. "Is this what you want?"
Singosta waited, knowing that she had everyone's attention, then thrust the blade through Aeger's heart, twisting it until the Legionnaire was still once more. Singosta looked over her shoulder at her audience, eyes wide in mock horror, and then pulled the blade free. Even from where Rane was, he could see Aeger's blood being absorbed into the blade.
Three seconds later, Aeger's eyes popped open and a gurgled cry forced its way out of her strangled throat. She kicked against the air, trying to find some purchase to elevate the pressure on her neck.
The mob was silent, transfixed by what was happening on the scaffolds. When Singosta next spoke, her voice was no more than a whisper but still it managed to reach every corner of the square. "But Heras will never be victorious. Her power — their power — can be destroyed."
From the barracks a giant of a man emerged. Naked from the waist up, he carried a blacksmith's anvil in his hands. Sunrays had been tattooed all over his muscled torso and they rippled as he moved. He marched to Singosta's side as if he were carrying something no heavier than a child, but when he placed it down on the stage, the scaffolds shook.
"By the power of Odason," said Singosta, "may the justice be done." She raised Aeger's sword above her head and then brought the weapon down onto the anvil with as much strength as she could muster.
The blade shattered on the anvil's edge — and Aeger stopped her dance. With the sword destroyed, the magic keeping her alive was gone. Death claimed her at last.
Rane couldn't take any more. He sucked in all his anger and pushed out with all his might, sending those surrounding him flying into their neighbours. A small bubble of space opened up and Kibon was out in an instant. He'd carve his way to the scaffold if he had to, but he'd not let the other Legionnaires suffer the same fate. He'd not let Aeger go unavenged.
"Legionnaire!"
It hung in the air for a moment before another voice snatched it up and threw it back out once more. "Legionnaire!"
All around Rane, heads turned and necks craned as others took up the cry. Scared faces peered at him but already he could see them doing the sums, imagining what ten thousand gold pieces could do for their lives. Enough gold can make even the worst coward brave for a time. But he had Kibon in his hand and rage in his heart. Blood would flow.
8
"Legionnaire!" The cries spread as others took up the shout. Voices full of greed and excitement, like children eager for treats.
A man lunged at him but Kibon sang out, cutting him down before he'd taken a second step, showing all of them the real reward for trying to capture a Legionnaire. He reversed the blade and thrust back under his arm as another tried to take him from behind. He felt the jolt with eve
ry kill, the power that flowed with the blood, igniting his fury further as he carved his way towards the gallows.
"Legionnaire! I saw him," shouted a man, knocking people out of the way to get to Rane. "Reward's mine." He had time to raise a fist before Rane opened his throat from ear to ear.
Again and again Kibon slashed out, cutting bodies down, filling Rane with power. The energy rushed through him, telling him he was unstoppable, indestructible. He hacked left and right, chopping down people like wheat but more filled any gap created by the dead and dying. Another fool fell before him, blood painting one and all. They would see what it cost to mistreat the Legion.
It felt so good to unleash. Hack, slash, thrust. He fought without thinking, his fury unquenched. It would be a bloody day to remember. Let the fools fear another gallows show. Let them have nightmares the next time they thought they'd watch a Legionnaire dance.
Arms wrapped themselves around his legs. Rane raised Kibon to cut himself free but stopped when he saw who held him. A girl, no more that seven or eight, all muddied face and filthy hair. Her eyes were filled with tears as she screamed at him to stop, to let her pa live.
Rane staggered back as the voice urged him to strike, to make her pay for her folly but Rane couldn't. She was a child and he'd not let Kibon claim her life.
Then he saw the corpses of those he'd already killed. The blood on his hands. By the Gods, what was happening to him? He kicked the girl off as the crowd stared at him in horror. He glanced up at the scaffold, at his comrades dangling on the ends of their nooses. Still too far away. He couldn't save them. Could he even save himself?
Blood roared in his ears and stolen life forces pulsed through him but he had to get his anger under control, get out of the square. Instead of enemies, he saw desperate people, scared of the monster in their midst. Using Kibon only to threaten, he retreated from the square. Still people came at him but the threat of his sword kept them back.
"Someone get him!" screamed a woman, her voice shrill. "He's getting away." But Rane could feel the parting of bodies behind him without looking. He pressed on and suddenly the pressure around him slackened.
