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, clutching 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.
A legionary spat in his face as he carried on walking, but Laigon ignored the insult. The massed ranks up ahead knew he was coming, but instead of barring his way they made room, a guard of dishonour for him to pass through.
Did they think he had changed his mind and decided to pledge himself to the Iron Tusk? Were they keen to see him fall to his knees in supplication, or did they merely wish to witness him executed at their warlord’s hand? Laigon had no idea, but he walked on regardless through what remained of the Tinker’s Gate, through the Chapel Gate until he came to the final courtyard.
Word had already reached them of his approach. The yard was lined with warriors standing behind their shields, presenting him a channel right up to the gate.
In front of it stood the Iron Tusk himself.
‘You see,’ proclaimed the warlord, as Laigon approached. ‘Our brother has returned to us. Turned to the right path. We were wise not to abandon our faith in him.’
Laigon stopped in front of the brute. The immortal warrior whose wounds had healed before his very eyes. He looked up, drinking in the stink of him, the size of him.
‘Kneel before me, Laigon Valdyr.’ The Iron Tusk’s voice cut through the silence, filling the void like the words of a high priest. ‘Pledge yourself to me and we will become conquerors.’
‘It is over,’ Laigon said. ‘Your reign is at an end.’ As he said the words, he believed them. Despite what he faced, Laigon’s faith did not waver.
‘You disappoint me again,’ said the Iron Tusk. ‘And for the last time. If you will not kneel in fealty, then kneel for your execution. I promise I will make it a swift one.’
‘If you want to take my head, you savage bastard, then go ahead. But it won’t be easy.’
The Iron Tusk laughed, discarding his huge sword and letting it fall to the ground with a thud. He hefted his axe in both hands, raising it for the final swing.
Laigon felt the figurine of Portius burn hot in his hand once more. This time he gripped it tighter, letting the pain course through his flesh. As the Iron Tusk swung the axe it was as though the warlord were moving through tar. His attack was laboured, like an old man was swinging that weapon and not an immortal overlord.
The axe swept past Laigon’s head, inches from his face. The Iron Tusk grunted as he missed his target, and Laigon picked his moment to strike. He lunged forward, gripping the figurine of Portius like a dagger, plunging it into that one baleful eye. It struck true, and Laigon grasped the horn protruding from the Iron Tusk’s head with his free hand, shoving the figurine in deeper, hearing the warlord’s laboured scream of agony as he did so.
With a bellow of fury, the Iron Tusk shoved Laigon back, sending him sprawling in the sand. Laigon looked up to see the warlord gripping his eye, trying to pull the figure of Portius free. But it was stuck fast.
Then, with a sudden flare of light, it burst into flames.
The Iron Tusk’s screams filled the courtyard as he fell to his knees. His head within that helm was burning like a funeral pyre, the eyeholes flaring bright, the metal glowing white hot.
Laigon leapt to his feet, pulling a sword from the scabbard of a stunned legionary. Then he rushed in, his form perfect as always, striking at the Iron Tusk’s neck. It should have struck the head from the beast, but instead it merely hacked a divot in the flesh. The Iron Tusk bellowed louder, swinging his huge blade blindly at his attacker. Laigon leapt aside, the axe whistling past his head. He rolled, coming up on his feet as the Iron Tusk thrashed about him, hacking that axe into the ground but finding no target.
With a final burst of energy, Laigon leapt again, raising the sword high. He screamed, a feral roar, and the Iron Tusk turned his head, axe sweeping back to hack Laigon in two. But he was not fast enough.
With a final hack of the blade, with all his strength and hate, Laigon struck the head from the Iron Tusk. He landed, hearing the warlord’s huge body collapsing to the dirt.
The courtyard fell silent. Laigon was panting heavily as he stood over that hulking corpse, the charred helm lying next to it. All around him were the legionaries of the Shengen. Men of every Standing looking on in awe.
Then, one by one, they fell to their knees and bowed their heads before him.