The Cordral Extent, 106 years after the Fall
CTENKA Sunatra had been a model recruit. When he first enlisted in the Great Eastern Militia he would leap from his bunk every morning, his enthusiasm boundless. His eagerness to prove himself meant he attacked every task with all the vigour of youth. Drilling and weapons training, cleaning his uniform, polishing his armour and weapons until he could shave his wispy facial hair in the reflection.
Six months into his posting at Dunrun and all that had changed.
The sun lanced into the barrack room through slats in the wooden blinds, and Ctenka Sunatra stared at them with one bleary eye. He could barely raise his head from the pillow, groggy with wine, his mouth dry as a dead dog.
Another day.
One more endless bloody day.
He sat up, dragging one leg after the other over the side of the bed. The rest of the tiny barrack room was empty, its ten bunks in varying states of disarray. At least he wasn’t alone in his apathy.
The Great Eastern Militia had once been a powerful military force. Indeed, its training grounds in Kantor were still a testament to that. But on the fringes of the Cordral, where old outposts lay in disrepair to rot in the sun, it was an entirely different story. Since the Fall most of those great monuments had crumbled. No longer did thaumaturges and sorcerers stand upon the battlements defending the city-state and its people from invaders. Now its soldiers were left to suffer the vagaries of the wilderness, waiting for an enemy that would never come.
Ctenka’s father had once told him of what nobility there was in service. The old soldier had a hundred stories of bravery in the face of insurmountable odds. Last stands fought on the fringes, as the soldiers of the Cordral rallied to defend their great nation. Ctenka had discovered something very different. All he had learned was how apathetic an army can become when there are no more wars to fight.
He pulled on his trews, once again ignoring the hole in the knee. His unpolished boots sat in a heap along with his tunic, the eagle symbol sewn on the front long since frayed.
A year ago he had appeared immaculate in this gear. When first he came to Dunrun he had looked out of place – a pearl amidst pig shit. Now he fitted right in. Another turd in the pile.
Picking up his sword, Ctenka headed for the door. The weapon rattled in his grip, blade far too loose in the scabbard, pommel and cross-guard rusted, leather binding worn paper-thin. Good weapon maintenance had been drilled into them in the training grounds but out here no one seemed to care, and Ctenka had soon fallen into the same bad habits as his peers. It was a regret, but not one so keen that he would want to change his ways now. What would be the point?
Outside the sun had already risen over the Crooked Jaw, beaming down onto the courtyard, stamping everything beneath its oppressive foot. Ctenka squinted, the light only making his fuddled head throb that much more.
Saying a silent prayer to Sol that he made it through the day without throwing up, he walked towards the Hangman’s Gate. It was the innermost of the five gates that defended the Cordral Extent from the Shengen Empire. Where the Skull Road spilled out from the Crooked Jaw stood the vast and ancient fortress of Dunrun. It was once manned by almost a thousand soldiers of the Eastern Militia, vigilantly guarding the important trade route against any sign of attack from imperial invaders. Now there were less than fifty men rattling around within the ancient ramparts.
Some were green recruits like Ctenka, sent for whatever reason to the arse end of the Cordral to waste away in the sun. Most were veterans, too old to hold a place among the Kantor Militia and too broken from a life of military service to be of any use elsewhere. Among those veterans there were some who seemed to still give a damn, executing their duties with dedication and putting their younger counterparts to shame.
One such man waited for Ctenka beneath the oppressive shadow of the Hangman’s Gate.
He stood a little over six feet, and though well into his fifties he was still broad at the shoulder and thick in the arm, his wide chest running to a slim waist, giving him the silhouette of a much younger man. His face though showed the truth of his years. His close-cropped hair and beard were silver, bright blue eyes peering from within brows wrinkled by decades of care.
‘Morning, Ermund,’ Ctenka said as he approached the militiaman.
‘Late again, Ctenka?’ said Ermund without any humour.
‘I am nothing if not a creature of habit, my friend,’ Ctenka replied with a smile. It was not returned.
They continued on their way, walking beneath the shadow of the Hangman’s Gate. It was the largest of the great gates of Dunrun, a huge barbican twenty feet thick spanning the entryway to the pass. In years gone by, the warriors of the militia had hanged bandits and invaders from its walls, hence the gruesome name. Now all that hung from it was the same stench of despair and ruin that lingered over the rest of Dunrun.
‘Good to see you’ve taken the usual pride in your appearance today,’ said Ermund.
Sarcasm was something Ctenka had come to appreciate from the big southerner.
‘We don’t all have the skills of a seamstress,’ he replied. ‘Some of us have talents that lie elsewhere.’
Ermund’s uniform was always meticulously spruce. There was certainly nothing frayed about him, despite the years of wear. Though Ermund’s past was something of a mystery, and a great source of debate among the militia of Dunrun, it was commonly accepted he must have been a military man through and through.
‘Yes,’ Ermund said, his eyes locked on the Skull Road ahead as it led through the remaining four gates of Dunrun. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll demonstrate exactly what those talents are.’
Ctenka laughed. Ermund retained his stern demeanour. One day he was sure he would see the big southerner crack a smile, but clearly it was not this day.
They crossed the wide courtyard and reached the Chapel Gate. Upon it was built an annexe that had in years past been devoted to prayer. There were still idols symbolising every god of the Cordral pantheon within it, but Ctenka did not know a single militiaman who used it to worship. Now the only gods venerated in Dunrun were those of wine, the only spirits invoked those found in the bottles that were delivered from the capital on rare occasion.
‘It’s very well you complaining. But what chance will I have to prove myself out here in the armpit of nowhere?’ Ctenka said, splaying his arms wide to take in the confines of the fort. They had walked beneath the Chapel Gate now and come out into the wide courtyard of the Tinker’s Gate. It had once been a burgeoning market, where the traders of Shengen and the Cordral would meet to ply their wares. Spices, livestock, precious gems, even ancient codices, would be bartered for within the shadow of the Crooked Jaw. Since the Fall, the Cordral had degenerated into a wilderness, its former agriculture diminishing to little more than the odd farm, scrabbling for existence in the desert. Now Dunrun was derelict – the sand having long since consumed every stall.
‘Prove yourself?’ said Ermund. ‘You could start by showing some attention to your appearance.’ His accent was so thick that Ctenka couldn’t tell whether he detected a hint of disdain or if it was merely his way of speaking. But then big old Ermund always had a way of seeming superior – even when he was conversing with senior officers.
‘Any man can wash a uniform,’ said Ctenka. ‘I want to prove myself in battle. There is war brewing to the west and here we are, guarding a stone ruin.’
‘Have a care what you wish for, Ctenka,’ Ermund replied.
Ctenka waved the big man away. ‘Are you about to tell me of the horrors of war, Ermund? Save your breath. I’ve heard it all before from my father.’
They walked beneath the Tinker’s Gate. Here the pass narrowed to a width of twenty feet and ahead was the Sandstone Gate. Once it may well have been a thing of beauty, but now it was crumbled, the heavy iron portcullis it housed broken and skewed. Nothing now but a useless archway.
‘I would not presume to tell you anything, Ctenka.’ Ermund kept his eyes fixed on the narrow pass ahead. ‘I have seen young men like you before. Seen them lust for glory. Seen them die in misery.’
‘Of course you have.’ They passed beneath the Sandstone Gate and Ctenka quickened his step slightly as he always did – wondering if this might be the day the ancient portcullis came crashing down upon him. ‘And one day you may want to tell me some stories from those joyous times. But until you do, I will fill my dull and empty days with dreams of victories to come.’
They walked across the last courtyard of Dunrun towards the final barbican. The Eagle Gate stood tall, built spanning the twenty-foot width of the pass. From it, the Skull Road wound all the way through the Crooked Jaw to the border of the Shengen Empire. A fifty-mile span of cobbled pathway that was now an abandoned trade route since Emperor Demetrii had been slain. It was said that back in the Age of Apostasy the tyrant Garul Hedtcheka had paved the road with the skulls of his enemies. It was either a tall tale or those skulls had long since been prised from the ground to be replaced by ordinary cobbles. Whatever the truth of it, the name had stuck.
Betul and Munir stood atop the fifty-foot high battlement. Ctenka gave a wave as he approached and Munir waved back enthusiastically. He was even greener than Ctenka, his eagerness for his duties not yet worn down to the nub by their pointlessness. Betul, however, was every inch the jaded recruit. He walked down the twisting stairway from the gate’s summit, his impatience to see his night’s watch end and return to bed obvious from his haste.
‘Day’s greetings, Betul,’ Ctenka said with a wink as they met at the bottom of the stair. ‘You look like I feel.’
‘I’m sure,’ Betul grunted.
His stomach had been fragile for the last two days after eating some spiced lamb none of the other men would touch. It was clear he was suffering for it now.
Ctenka was about to make a poor joke about the prospective state of Betul’s morning shit, when Ermund gripped him by the shoulder.
‘Look,’ said the southerner, pointing through the open gate.
Through it, Ctenka could see down the Skull Road for a half-mile.
No one had travelled along the pass for some weeks. The last they had seen were refugees from Shengen, fleeing the harsh rule of their new overlord. Now came what looked like a crowd in the distance.
‘Munir, seal the gate,’ Ermund ordered. The young recruit rushed to obey without a word of complaint; when Ermund barked an order it was generally obeyed, even by those of superior rank. ‘Betul, find Marshal Ziyadin. Ctenka, with me.’
With that Ermund rushed up the stairs of the Eagle Gate with the vigour of a much younger man. Ctenka was at pains to keep pace with him, and when finally they reached the summit it was he, not Ermund, who was out of breath.
From the top of the barbican they could see down through the pass. There was a group of soldiers coming, heavily armoured but moving at speed. A scout party for a larger force perhaps? They were certainly too few in number to be mounting any kind of invasion.
‘How many, do you think?’ Ctenka asked.
‘Forty-two,’ Ermund answered, his keen eyes surmising their number at a glance.
‘Well… what do they want?’
Ermund slowly turned his head to gaze at Ctenka with a raised eyebrow. ‘Why don’t you go down there and ask?’
‘I think I’ll let you do the talking,’ Ctenka replied.
‘I see. Not that keen to earn yourself honour and glory after all.’
‘There’s a time and a place, my friend,’ said Ctenka, watching as the soldiers neared the gate, their armour and weapons looking in much better condition than those of the Dunrun militia.
Well, Ctenka had been hoping for some action.
All he could think was that in future, he should be careful what he wished for.