THE shining streets of Nephyr had never seemed as alien to Laigon as they did today. He had walked the White City’s marble-paved Road of Immortals a thousand times, but now he felt like a stranger in the city of his birth.
Where before a victory parade would see the streets lined with the cheering masses, now there was silence. Streaming garlands and a petal-strewn path were replaced by crowds of sullen citizens staring blankly at their passing. Nothing but the sounds of marching feet echoed through the city. They even seemed to have frightened the birds from the rooftops.
At their head rode the Iron Tusk, surrounded by his retinue of faithful brigands. Over the months of conflict, Laigon had watched as the noble legionaries of every Standing had fallen to their knees in supplication. Every army Emperor Demetrii had set against the Iron Tusk had proclaimed the warlord their new god-king or died at his hand.
And all the while, Laigon had watched and done nothing.
Not a day went by when he did not regret his decision, but pledging himself to the Iron Tusk had seemed the only thing to do – as though he had no choice in it. Every man had a choice, every man walked his own path, but in this Laigon had felt compelled. It was a decision he was helpless to change. He was servant to a new master now. Or was he a slave?
What had made him succumb so easily? What had made so many others follow in his wake? What magic was at work here?
No, it could not be magic. The ancient sorcerers were dead and gone. Magic had been struck from the world, never to return. This was the inexorable power of one man… no matter how inhuman that man seemed to be.
Laigon could see him up ahead now, that horned head and powerful torso elevated above the crowd. The vast beast on which he rode making its way through the streets of Nephyr as though they had always belonged to him.
The warlord mounted the white stone stairway up to the imperial palace. With every step the Praetorian Guard that lined the way dropped to their knees, bowing their heads to a new sovereign.
So easily the Iron Tusk was able to bend men to his will. So naturally they abandoned their former loyalties and pledged themselves to this eidolon. And yet still Laigon tried to convince himself this was not magic. It could not be. His former loyalties could not have been abandoned because of some enchantment. Surely he was simply doing what was right? What he was meant to do?
The centurion shook his head, loosening a bead of sweat which ran from beneath the rim of his helm and down his forehead. This was no time for doubt.
He followed the procession up the great stairway and beneath the arched entrance to the palace. The huge domed ceiling soared fifty feet above them, but loomed over Laigon as though he had entered the darkest cave, the sense of foreboding ominous.
At the far end of the grand temple stood the emperor’s throne. Demetrii sat in all his regalia – golden armour making him seem more than a man, decorative helm bestrewn with a plume of red and blue feathers. He watched impassively as the Iron Tusk rode that bear towards him. Laigon could only admire the emperor’s courage.
Demetrii stood from his throne as the Iron Tusk approached. Even elevated as he was on the throne’s dais, the warlord stood at the same eye level. Laigon was close enough to see the emperor’s face, his expression rigid. So many times Laigon had knelt before that throne and now he watched as an interloper desecrated its sanctity. And yet he did nothing.
There was a fleeting moment where Demetrii seemed to consider his actions, as though he doubted whether or not to offer fealty to this monster. He glanced across the gathered ranks, the warriors of the Standings, and his gaze hovered over Laigon. Shame filled the centurion, and he could not hold his emperor’s glance, looking away rather than be cut further by the betrayal on Demetrii’s face.
Taking every step with reverent care, Demetrii descended the dais to stand before the Iron Tusk. He opened his mouth to speak. Laigon remembered that voice; one that spoke with such authority. But before he could utter a word the warlord said, ‘Kneel.’
One word, but it held such power that it silenced an emperor.
Demetrii dropped to his knees before the Iron Tusk and bowed his head.
‘See,’ said the warlord, turning to face the gathered rows of warriors. ‘See how your emperor kneels. See how he is made to yield. Know that none can resist. Not one among you can defy me.’
He walked forward and laid a hand on the huge head of that armoured bear. There was a sound, a whisper of something in a language Laigon could not catch.
In an instant the bear leapt forward. Its growl cut through the palace hall, drowning out Demetrii’s scream as those fetid jaws took hold of his head. There was a grinding of teeth on metal as the creature’s maw crushed the helm encasing Demetrii’s head. For a moment his scream grew shrill before it was silenced.
‘Know there can be no defiance,’ said the Iron Tusk when all fell silent. ‘There shall be no one you shall worship above me. But those who follow willingly will be rewarded in abundance.’
The Iron Tusk strode forward along the path between the men of his army. Representatives from the First to Fifth Standings watched, every eye on this conqueror.
‘I will not be stopped,’ said the warlord. Their new emperor. ‘Once I have crushed the Mercenary Barons to the south I will look west. The Suderland, the Cordral and the Ramadi will all fall before me. I will sweep across those lands like a plague. Those who do not join me shall be destroyed.’ His single eye swept across the ranks of armoured men, until it fell on Laigon himself. As though he were the only man present, powerless beneath that inscrutable gaze. ‘Will you follow me?’
As one, a thousand men dropped to their knees in obedience as their dead emperor bled on a white marble floor.
* * *
Laigon’s villa was a humble affair on the eastern outskirts of Nephyr. Other centurions lived in almost palatial splendour, paid for by the spoils of war, but ostentation was not for Laigon. He had always been a defender of the people. It was only fitting that he dwelt in a place as modest as those of the citizenry he protected.
Every time he returned to this haven, no matter how bloody the campaign, no matter the slaughter he had witnessed, Laigon always felt his troubles lift. Now, as he walked through the neat gardens and along the mosaic path to his door, he felt more troubled than ever before.
Petrachus burst through the door as Laigon approached. His son was growing fast, almost twelve summers. It would not be long before the boy was initiated as a young cadet. Laigon should have been proud of the fact, but there was no joy in him now. He felt numb as Petrachus rushed into his arms, hugging him tightly. The happiness that should have filled him evaded him, and he knew why. Laigon had helped condemn the empire to rule beneath the heel of a despot. He had abetted the Iron Tusk in bending Shengen to his will. Only now did Laigon feel the true weight of what he had done.
Nevertheless, he picked up his son, forcing a smile as Petrachus took his helm and placed it over his head.
‘One day soon it will fit,’ Laigon said as he approached the open doorway.
‘One day soon?’ the boy replied. ‘Then will I be a centurion too?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. Though now it was the last thing he would have wished on his son.
Laigon crossed the threshold and entered his house. Verrana stood waiting inside, busying herself with a pot of flowers as though she hadn’t already known her husband was about to arrive. It was a charade she went through every time he came home.
‘I didn’t expect you back so soon,’ she said. He had not seen his wife for the best part of three seasons.
Without a word Laigon gently put Petrachus down and embraced his wife, breathing her in deeply. Laigon opened his eyes to see she was looking at him curiously.
‘What is it?’ she asked, reading the troubled expression he was wearing like a caul.
Surely she must know by now. The emperor was dead. A usurper sat upon the throne and it was the empire’s own armies who had put him there.
‘What have I done?’ was all Laigon could think to say.
Verrana laid her hands on his armoured shoulders. ‘You did what you had to, Centurion. So that you could return to us. You are Laigon Valdyr. You are a warrior. A survivor. Never apologise for that.’
Laigon nodded, feeling some of the weight upon his shoulders lift.
His burden lightened further when he stripped off his amour and laid his sword aside. Verrana had prepared a sumptuous meal for him that reminded Laigon it was not just her beauty that had urged him to take her as his bride. As he ate, Petrachus sat opposite, watching with an expression of adoration, without doubt or question. Though Laigon’s men would have followed him anywhere, he knew the devotion Petrachus held for him was without equal. When Verrana walked by and kissed him gently on his temple, Laigon began to realise how deeply he had missed his family.
And how much everything had changed.
After dinner he watched Verrana put their son to bed, then kissed her goodnight. When he was sure she slept, he took a single rushlight and walked from the villa, out into the garden, silent but for the sound of chirruping crickets. The path that led to the side of the villa was cool underfoot, and he had to shield the rushlight from the gentle night breeze.
Laigon entered the tiny chapel that sat beside the villa, lighting the candles within and illuminating the meagre altar to the gods. He knew he was committing heresy. The people of Shengen now had no god but the Iron Tusk, but still Laigon could not resist the old habit and the old gods. Or at least one god in particular.
Portius had always been his. He knew it was strange for a warrior to follow the trickster god, but something about the portly deity had always appealed to Laigon. As he knelt before the statue, three foot of poorly moulded clay, he bowed his head and prayed.
He had no idea what to expect. Whether he would feel nothing or be overcome by some epiphany. What he hadn’t expected was such an overwhelming feeling of grief. Whatever false loyalty he held for this new warlord seemed to slough off him in an instant, to be replaced by the weight of what had happened. Of what he had done. Laigon had been born to serve, had been raised on loyalty to the throne of Shengen. Now all that had been cut away and Laigon had helped wield the knife.
No matter how hard he prayed, no matter the forgiveness he begged for, he knew he would never shed the guilt of his inaction. He should have died in the mountains defending Shengen and his emperor. Should have given his life rather than become slave to some inhuman monster.
Laigon prayed for redemption, but there were no words of support from Portius. Every time he had prayed before there had at least been some notion of comfort. Now it was clear no one was listening.
When finally he opened his eyes the candles had long since burned out. Laigon stood and crossed the garden under the hazy predawn light. Back inside his villa his wife and son were still sleeping. He crept to his bed and lay beside Verrana. Despite the warmth of her beside him, Laigon had never felt so alone.