Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  Riella smiled to herself, sure that he could not see her. He is not that old, she thought, more like a man leaving his prime rather than wallowing in frail dotage. His legs were as wide as tree trunks and gave way to a waist that was at once thick and narrow: thick with the promise of strength but lean, with no fat on the hips. Beccorban folded his great arms across his powerful chest, and though they were mostly covered by the sleeves of his jerkin, she could see the scars that criss-crossed his hands in a spider’s web of forgotten injuries.

  A warrior. Yet another causal killer in a world full of them. She had known killers, men who came to her with another’s blood still wet on them. It was an old wisdom, after all, was it not? Nothing like a good fuck after some bloodletting.

  A shadow flitted across her vision as she thought again of her last customer, his shifty eyes, his greasy hair, the intimidating weight of him. She could still taste the salty blood that had spilled on to her lips from his open mouth as she stabbed him in the throat. She shuddered at the memory of the way the blade had grated against the cartilage of his windpipe, that horrid sucking sound as he had fought to breathe past the steel. He had deserved it, though. He would have taken by force what he could have had for a fair price. It had happened to many of the other girls; some even wore it as a badge of honour, a rite of passage. She thought again of her friend whose name she had taken for her weapon. What they had done to her… Riella would not face that indignity. The bastards, she thought, staring at the man on the bed. The arrogant, swaggering bastards.

  Riella felt her cheeks flush and touched the tips of her fingers to them to feel the heat. No, not him. She busied herself with cleaning the room, though a voice in her head still whispered poisonous thoughts: they are all the same, Riella. Give him but a chance and he will take it. Despite herself, Riella felt for the thin stiletto — the true Esha — strapped against her thigh. Just in case. “It’s always best to be alert,” he had said.

  A noise like thunder made her jump, and then, with a soft chuckle, she realised it was Beccorban snoring. His chest rose and then fell in shallow breaths as deep sleep took him. He must be exhausted, she thought. The sudden violence in the taproom downstairs had shocked her, but it had also left her feeling tired and hungry, and she had barely been involved. What must he feel like? Riella knew she should try and rest, but the cool air had pinned her eyes open, and though she knew she was low on energy, her muscles were still taut with adrenaline, straining to be released.

  Beccorban sighed contentedly in his sleep and rolled on to his furled bearskin cloak like a protective parent snuggling up to a child. Bec-cor-ban. A strange name, an older name that you rarely heard any more. Funny how names fall in and out of fashion, thought Riella. He had asked her to keep it a secret. Certainly nobody else knew it — the tavern owner had called him only ‘woodsman.’ What dangers did that name carry with it?

  If what Beccorban had said was true, he had placed a great deal of trust in her, a stranger. Maybe he thinks it will get you into his bed. No, he had been reaching out, touching another human being with his vulnerability. She bit down a smile. Vulnerable was probably a word that had not been used much before when describing Beccorban. She studied his face: the strong chin behind a jutting black beard, flecked with the grey of old steel; the large once-straight nose, broken and reset a dozen times; the scar below his right eye — something had cut deep there, he was lucky to still have control of the muscles. As she watched him, he twitched and then frowned, those great brows knitting together in a ridged tangle of leathery flesh. What worries you, woodsman?

  Beccorban rolled over again but this time he had caught the bearskin in a tangle between his legs, and as he moved he carried it with him, revealing a sliver of wood the colour of dried blood underneath.

  Riella blinked. He was hiding something. Though he was a perfect stranger, she felt oddly betrayed. Carefully she crept towards the bed, flitting her gaze between the wood and the slumbering giant that guarded it. A weapon, surely? It must be a weapon. She reached the edge of the bed, and with one hand out to steady herself, reached under the black fur of the cloak. She closed her hand around the oiled wood and marvelled at the warmth of it. It was as though it was alive, coursing with a hot energy all its own, as if she held part of Beccorban himself. She conjured an image to her mind and blushed at the thought. Snap out of it!

  It was a handle, about the thickness of a child’s wrist and definitely made of an exotic wood. Gently she began to tug it towards her, trying to free it from the jealous clutches of the bearskin. As she pulled, Riella could see more and more that it was indeed a weapon. Fully an arm’s length of the shaft was free now, including a section of hardened leather that had been wrapped around the middle. Though the end was still hidden, she could feel the weight of it already and knew that some of that weight was the burden of the lives it had taken.

  Beccorban. The name came to her again. There had been a man once, many years ago. Had he not been called Beccorban? Yes, she decided, he had, but he had been called many others things besides, and that man was dead, killed in a battle as bitter as his life’s work. Helhammer. Scourge. Slain and hacked apart as a punishment for his crimes.

  Riella looked again at that lined face, at the hair flecked with grey. Now it had taken on a different aspect to her. She could see the pain in him, the inner agony that made his face twist, that clawed at the back of his eyelids so that it might look upon the world that had conceived it. He would be about the right age, she was sure. Her mother had told her the stories when she was young but she had thought that they were just that: stories. Was this man the ogre from her mother’s tall tales?

  He stirred restlessly and she froze, afraid to look up in case she met that iron-coloured gaze and withered before it, as so many surely had before. The moment seemed to last for an age while she waited for a bellow of rage and the clasp of steel fingers on her flesh, but it did not come, and finally she noticed the rhythm of his breathing and realised that he was still very much asleep. She frowned. Did evil men know they were evil?

  Riella turned her attention back to the wooden handle of the weapon. Over two thirds of it was exposed now, and as she pulled it again to free the end, it snagged on the cloak. She swore softly and tried once more. It refused to move, trapped as it was in the folds of the black fur, which was in turn pinned beneath Beccorban’s bulk. Riella felt panic threaten and took a deep breath. There was no going back now. If he caught her like this, things would turn ugly. She bent forward and gripped the wood with both hands. Carefully she twisted it so that whatever was trapped might come loose, and then, risking everything, she gave a great heave.

  It was a warhammer. The head of it broke free and slid across the bed. With a sickening lurch, Riella realised that the hammer was too heavy for her and that, unbalanced as she was, it would fall from the bed and smash into the floor. Quickly she dropped to one knee and released the handle, throwing her hand forward to catch the head as it slipped forward and dropped to the floorboards with unearthly speed. The hammer crushed her hand into the floor and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out with pain. She looked up at Beccorban, but this time he was not asleep. He was sitting rigid, awake and staring at her with a mixed look of surprise, rage, and fear.

  Riella looked back at him, unsure of what to say. Her hand throbbed and she was sure that one or more of her fingers were broken, but his expression hurt her more. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped as the sound of somebody ascending the stairs from the taproom carried to both their ears. Beccorban leapt into action, shoving Riella aside with his knee and snatching up the fallen weapon, however before he could hide it away, there came a shocked gasp from behind them, and they both turned to see Hana standing at the door, one hand hovering at her mouth and the other holding a tray of food. She dropped it with a clatter and spilled black bread, cheese, and cured meat on to the floorboards.

  Riella knew what it looked like: her on the floor nursing an injury, Be
ccorban standing above her, hair in disarray, the bedclothes all a-tangle and a weapon of dark purpose in his hand. “Hana,” she reached out, but it was too late. The girl turned and fled, even her slight frame making the timbers crack and creak as she went.

  Beccorban stood still a moment more then strode to the bed. He gathered up his bearskin cloak and twirled it on to his shoulders, then set about packing what he could into a small satchel of tanned hide that she had not noticed until now.

  Riella watched him as he marched around the room, gathering furs and picking up the fallen food from where Hana had dropped it. “I’m sorry,” she began.

  “That was badly done,” he cut her off. “Now things will turn ill.” He didn’t look at her and she could feel the shame of her betrayal burning the tender skin behind her ears. Why had she looked? What right did she have to his secrets?

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed again. “Truly. I didn’t mean for—”

  “You didn’t think of anything besides yourself and now we shall both pay for it. You more so than I.”

  “What do you mean?” Riella picked herself up and stood drunkenly — an island lashed by the cold and unforgiving seas of his rage.

  Beccorban stopped his frantic activity and stared her down so that she felt the chill of his gaze. He pointed the head of the warhammer that he clutched so possessively straight at her, and when he lifted it, it was as though he held nothing more than a reed, not the heavy weight of wood and steel that had ruined her hand. “I am used to being hunted. I have been chased and I have fled like prey and I have even been cornered a few times, as I am now, but I have never been caught. When they come for me again I shall be long gone, but now they shall also come for you. Let us hope that you can sneak away.” His eyes bored into the back of her skull. “Spirit counts for much but it has little stamina when the knives come out.” His voice was hard and cruel and had been stripped of any of the warmth she had heard before. “Flee, girl. It won’t be long now.”

  Riella stood dumbfounded and it felt as though the world was closing in around her. “But I’m coming with you. To Kressel.”

  Beccorban laughed and it was a laugh as frosty as the mountain wind. “No. I will not have you with me. Not now.”

  “But I never meant…” she protested but did not get to finish, as the heavy footsteps of a man thundered up the stairs until Hari was standing in the doorway, his daughter hidden behind his arm.

  “So it is true,” he said, his eyes fastened on the weapon in Beccorban’s grip.

  Beccorban nodded, making no effort to hide the warhammer. “Aye, it is true. I am no simple woodsman. Would that I were.”

  A haunted look came over Hari’s face and his eyes glazed over with fear. He tore his eyes from the warhammer. “I won’t have you here in my home. Get out or, gods help me, I’ll scream your name from the village square, and then even that,” he pointed at the hammer,” won’t save you. Not even you.”

  Beccorban nodded, and Riella, caught in between, saw Beccorban tense as if to strike out, then he breathed deeply and relaxed. “You know my past, tavern keeper, but you do not know my present. I will leave, but don’t follow me.” He looked up and there was ice in his eyes. “You know what I am capable of.”

  “I know your deeds, Helhammer. I know the stain your soul bears. I was with you at Fend and during the Long March.” He paused and his voice grew quiet. “And Iss. The city of your shame, the city of ash and bone. Go now, Helhammer, and don’t come back or I will kill you.”

  Beccorban held Hari’s gaze and Riella could feel the promise of violence between the two men. Hari was much smaller than Beccorban and clearly no match for him. It had taken a lot of courage for him to say what he had but she could see that Beccorban was going to let him say it. Hari stepped aside and the huge warrior stalked from the room without a word. The tension eased like dust settling, and Riella, uncomfortable, grabbed one of the discarded fur cloaks from the pile on the floor and went after Beccorban. He had been cut loose and she had tied herself to his mast, so she followed, past Hari and his sobbing daughter, down the stairs, through the empty taproom and out into the cold.

  Beccorban was some distance ahead of her, a great black silhouette contrasted against the white brilliance of the snow. Even from this distance she could see by the set of his shoulders that he was burning with rage, so that she imagined she might see steam rising in his wake. Nevertheless she hurried to catch up with him. He did not look back and seemed content to let her follow him, though she thought it wise to keep her distance.

  After a while he stopped and slung the warhammer underneath his cloak, hooking it on an unseen catch on his back. Riella stood patiently, waiting for him to move on again. When he did not she realised that he was waiting for her. She came to stand by his side and he spoke.

  “Do you believe in second chances?” he asked. His voice was gentle again.

  “Yes,” she said meekly. “Within reason.”

  He laughed. “Within reason. That is good.”

  He turned back the way they had come and his hand snapped to the hammer, ready to draw it. Riella turned with him, afraid that Hari had raised a mob to chase them from the village after all. Yet it was not a mob behind them but rather a crowd of people connected only in their interest — interest that did not lie with the large man and his female companion. They were all looking past the duo, pointing and whispering to each other, though she could not make out what they were talking about.

  “What are they saying?” she asked Beccorban and he turned to look back down the mountain, where the sky smudged into the land. The sun was sliding below the eastern horizon but there was still a golden red glow, fiercer than any light cast by the great orb at this time of day. Beccorban narrowed his eyes and pointed in the same manner as those behind him. On one side his face was twilight and shadow, but on the other it shone with the warmth of a distant fire, showing at once the two men she had met that day.

  “Kressel,” his voice was grim. “She burns.”

  XIII

  Loster closed the door of his small carriage and looked down the length of the assembled wagons. They’d been travelling for three days now since being turned away from Temple, and still it seemed that they were no closer to the second city. It made no sense. They had approached the capital on the main road but, upon arriving, had found the famous Certifax Gate closed. A vast army was encamped outside the walls, and they had been forced to suffer numerous checkpoints and searches before they were allowed to approach the city. None of Aifayne’s protests that they were simple priests were heeded. Eventually their group was informed that they would not be allowed into Temple at all. The city was closed to outsiders, as loyal members of the council sought to purge criminal elements from the Empron’s court.

  Instead they were directed to Kressel, the second city of Veria. Kressel was many miles away through the forest of Mantle and then Ruum, the great mountain fortress that squatted like an insect over the only pass through the Dantus Mountains. Aifayne had cursed and uttered a few words Loster had never thought to hear from his mouth, but there was little else to do. After a night spent camping under the shadow of Temple’s enormous battlements, they had set off again.

  Far from being disappointed, the young lordling had found it hard to contain his excitement at first. Leaving the place of his birth had not been hard, but as the convoy passed the boundaries of Malix’s dominion, Loster had been treated to one last horror: three small bodies, blackened and twisted by fire, hanging from the roadside. He had not had to look for too long to know that the bodies belonged to Barik and his cronies. Loster was Malix’s and he always would be. The dead boys were a lesson to all those that would seek to claim otherwise.

  Now he had finally left Elk and all the evil there. Better still, the gods had seen fit to send him even further away than planned. He was thankful that in Kressel the Widowpeak would not even be a bump on the horizon.

  He winced as a twinge of pain teased one of his r
ibs. He placed a hand on his chest and probed gently. His body was still recovering from the beating he had taken but it was much better now. His wounds would heal, theirs would not.

  Loster put the grisly image from his mind and dragged himself back to the present. The wagons had been stopped for some time and nobody had thought to tell him why. He looked to his left and right. It was very quiet around here. A short distance away, a handful of his father’s guardsmen in dark grey mail and tunics of the same colour played dice at a small trestle table. Loster knew he should reprimand them and tell them to get back to their duties, but he also knew that he would not. His father’s men did not take orders from priests, especially beardless ones. Loster ran a hand over his chin and frowned at the smoothness there. Still a boy, if not by name.

  He thought of Barde as he often did and tried to imagine him as he would be now. Barde always had an easy way with the soldiers, even being so young — younger than Loster was now. He had laughed with them and made jokes with them and they had vied for his attention and smiled at him with paternal affection. Loster sighed and stepped off of the stone roadway into the trees. That was a memory now and memories were best forgotten. He had tried to go back once and that was enough.

  “Lord Loster! My Lord!” came a wheedling voice.

  Loster sighed and turned back to see an elderly man in the white robes of a dawn priest poking his head out from the carriage. The expression on his craggy face suggested that the outside world were a forbidden place and he risked his very soul by being there.

  “Yes, Aifayne? What is it?”

  “You must not stray too far from the convoy, my Lord. Your Lord father said you were to stay with me until we reach our destination.”

  “We reached our destination and couldn’t get in. Now we have a new one.”

  “That is quite besides the point.”