Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  The man was familiar to him, not by name or face but rather by reputation. What was it Runt had said? “Banished, for trying to teach the secrets of the Temple Deep.”

  Droswain, once a priest of the Temple Dawn and now an exile. It had to be him. Callistan had no great love nor hate for religious men but all too seldom since he had left Temple had he encountered something he knew, something he could control. This was one of those things. Besides, the Doppelganger had shown him that he was good with crowds.

  Droswain was still speaking and discontent was spreading through the crowd like ink dipped in water. Oratory was a powerful gift but it was often abused, and these people were desperate. “Priest!” he shouted, elbowing his way past an overlarge woman blocking his path.

  Droswain was in full flow, speaking now of the foolishness of the imperial throne. He turned his head briefly to register Callistan’s approach and then looked back to his audience.

  “Priest!” Callistan called again, cupping one hand around his mouth to direct his voice. “I wish to talk to you!”

  “Wait yer turn,” squeaked a pretty young woman emerging from behind the vast bulk of her mother like the sun from behind a cloud.

  “Yeah,” said another. “We’re here to listen to him, not you. Sling yer ‘ook!” An elderly man shook his fist in Callistan’s face but the horseman just smiled disarmingly and gently pawed the old man’s arm away without breaking his stride towards the centre of the crowd.

  “I will speak to you, priest,” said Callistan loudly and clearly. Droswain stopped mid-sentence, staring at him as he advanced and frowning in confusion. The priest looked down at two large men who watched Callistan’s progress hungrily, and with an almost imperceptible flick of that small, pointy head, set them on their way to intercept him. Callistan laughed to himself with genuine enjoyment. It was a clear, musical sound, joined only by the crashing of the surf on the beach and the murmur of more distant happenings in parts of the crowd unaffected by Droswain’s words. Droswain’s audience had fallen silent and all were now staring at Callistan to see what would happen next. A narrow path opened for him in the crowd. His laughter had thrown them off guard. People were afraid of madness — they thought it catching.

  The two big men waded through the pack of people around Droswain’s wagon and closed on Callistan quickly. One of them grinned — a grin with as many teeth as spaces where teeth had once been — and crossed the last few paces to Callistan, reaching out with one hand in a childish fashion, as though he could simply pick up this loud, rude man and fling him into the sea.

  Callistan waited until the tips of the man’s fingers brushed his tunic and then whipped his hand up to wrap a steel grip around the offending wrist. The man gasped in sudden panic and tried to draw his hand back, but Callistan was too fast and he took advantage of the man’s lethargy, twisting the captive arm around and slamming the flat of his palm into the joint of the elbow. There was a deafening crack and the large man dropped to the sand, nursing his broken arm and howling with pain. The other man had disappeared, but just then Callistan was seized from behind and a great meaty arm wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze.

  His world darkened as shadow crept in from the edges of his vision and it felt as though his skull were about to burst like an overripe melon. Just before he passed out, a surge of adrenaline returned his senses to him, and he kicked backwards with his heel, feeling a connection with something soft and yielding. The second man yelped like a scolded dog and fell, releasing Callistan. Air came rushing back into his lungs and he wheezed and coughed, in danger of fainting from the sudden richness of it. His hand fluttered to his throat and massaged the bruised flesh there. Turning around, he saw that the second man was slowly climbing to his feet, his eyes full of hate but also caution, one hand hovering protectively in front of his groin.

  “You’ll pay for that,” the man said, drawing a knife.

  Callistan shrugged and drew his falcata from the sheath on his back. Stepping forward, he tensed, ready to cut down savagely. A strong hand gripped his wrist and he looked up, meeting Beccorban’s wintery gaze. The old warrior shook his head. “Enough of this,” he said. “Put up your weapon.”

  The man with the knife spat and leapt forward, slashing outwards to gut Beccorban. Beccorban stepped backwards quickly and let go of Callistan, reaching for his hammer. The mighty weapon shone in the sun but, before he could bring it to bear, Callistan stepped in front of him, twirling with a dancer’s grace to cleave a deep diagonal stripe of darkest red across the knifeman’s face. The body dropped to the ground without a sound, pouring dark blood on to the thirsty sand. The crowd screamed as one and people began to fall over themselves to get away from the violence.

  “Stop!” rang out a clear cultured voice. “This has gone too far.” Droswain had left his perch atop the wagon and stood a few paces away, his hands raised palms outward to show he meant no harm. Now that he was closer, Callistan could see that the priest was somewhere around thirty to forty summers old. At the priest’s side were three burly men, each armed with a club and a sour expression. That the priest commanded people so easily spoke of his influence and Callistan wondered how many followers he could cast into this fight. “Put up your weapon, Aston,” Droswain spoke to the men beside him without turning his head. “You as well, Burnet. Get Pimmel out of here. You are an embarrassment.” This last he directed at the man with the broken arm, who sat like a child fallen in the midst of play, nursing his injury.

  One of the men blinked in confusion then threw his weapon on to the floor with disgust. The other two walked forward to drag the unfortunate Pimmel to his feet. Droswain nodded and spat as Pimmel staggered past. “Fool!” His voice was dark with anger. He turned to Callistan next and his face was calm again, as charming and as open as ever. “You’ve killed one of mine.” He spoke as though he was discussing the weather and Callistan marvelled at the audacity of the man.

  “He started it,” he said surlily, then added pointlessly, “He attacked me.”

  “It was his duty to protect me,” said Droswain admonishingly. “That’s what I paid him for.”

  “Then I have saved you some coin.”

  Droswain’s eyes flashed with anger at this remark but the public part of his face grinned maliciously. He turned to meet the approaching Beccorban with a question. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Beccorban reached behind him, slipping his hammer back into the hidden thongs. Only when it was secure did he answer in a guarded tone. “Travellers, looking to leave this land.”

  “You are alone?”

  “No, I am with my… wife, and my son,” Beccorban waved a hand to encompass Riella and Loster, Mirril and Crucio who were waiting nearby. He gestured for them to join him. “The girl is travelling with us.”

  “I see.” Droswain narrowed his eyes as the others came to stand by Beccorban’s side. He pointed at Callistan. “And him?” he asked, turning to Loster for an answer. “What is he to you, boy?”

  Loster’s pale face paled further and he took on the expression of a startled deer. He swallowed and was about to answer but Callistan answered for him. “I’m his brother,” he said.

  Droswain laughed. “Brother, father, son, daughter, horse. A strange family. Yes, very strange indeed.” The priest cocked his head and spoke to Beccorban. “Your weapon, may I see it?”

  “Why?” Beccorban’s voice was loaded with suspicion.

  “Because the gods work in mysterious ways, and believe me when I say this is important. For you and your son. Your weapon?” Droswain prompted again and, surprisingly, Beccorban slowly reached behind him to unhook his hammer once more. He held it out warily, turning it so that the light caught the runes and engravings on the killing end and rippled down the blood-dark wood of the haft. Callistan had to admit, it was a beautiful piece of work. “Gods, it is you,” said Droswain. His eyes — deep brown — took on a fervent energy. He spoke to the man who had thrown away his club. “Fuller, go
and find us a boat. We must leave soon. Fetch the others”

  “I’m not sure I understand…” Beccorban began, but Droswain waved away his protests.

  “You need to leave, yes? To get on one of those ships?” He turned and pointed at the low, dark forms of the waiting warships.

  “Yes, but—”

  “It is arranged,” said Droswain simply. “I already have a berth waiting for me and I have paid the captain in good coin. He will make room for guests of mine, though I cannot take you all. You, Helhammer, you and your boy will come.”

  Beccorban hugged the hammer to him protectively and a shadow passed across his face. “Do not speak that name here, priest. It will get me killed.” He looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot. For the moment they were alone, the violence had pushed the crowd further up the beach to the returning ferry boats. “How do you know of me?”

  “All in good time, Beccorban. We will have lots of time to talk on the voyage, but first I must have you and your son. What is your name, boy?”

  “Loster.”

  “Loster,” Droswain spoke the name slowly as if he was savouring a fine wine. “A good name. A strong name.” He snapped back to his senses. “Come, we must get to the boats.”

  He stooped to pick up the fallen club and began to walk away but Beccorban’s call made him look over his shoulder. “Wait! I cannot leave the others.”

  Droswain thought for a second, and then said, “The girl. You can bring her.”

  “We are all coming, or none of us are,” growled Callistan.

  “There is not enough room. Now come, or we shall miss it.” Aston and Burnet had returned and their presence was making the priest bold once again. Callistan felt an itching at the back of his neck.

  “No, priest. All of us or none of us.” Beccorban added his gravelly protest.

  Droswain turned back to face them, a frown creasing his deceptively honest features. “Aston? Burnet?”

  “Yes, Master Droswain?” asked the one known as Aston.

  “Kill the blond one.” Droswain handed Aston his club and began to walk away. The two men lunged.

  Callistan danced backwards and brought his sword up to parry the clumsy blow from Aston’s club. His riposte was a blur of metal and he buried the blade in Aston’s gut. The falling weight of the dying man dragged the sword from his hand and Callistan threw himself backwards as Burnet’s club came sweeping down at his head. As he dodged, Callistan tripped on the body of the first man he had killed, landing hard on his back in sand stained wet with blood. Burnet came on with a vicious snarl and Callistan grabbed a fistful of sand and flung it in his eyes. The sand was too damp to spread properly but it was a perfect throw and the wet clod smacked into Burnet’s eyes with a slap. He shouted in alarm and stumbled on the same body that had felled Callistan, and the blond warrior rolled away to avoid his falling weight. Jumping to his feet, Callistan jogged over to Aston’s twitching corpse, and put a boot on the dead man’s chest so that he could tug his falcata free. He walked slowly over to Burnet who lay struggling blindly on the ground.

  “Callistan, don’t,” came Beccorban’s despairing plea but Callistan was not listening. He hacked down and the blade chopped into the back of Burnet’s neck, half severing his head. Callistan worked the blade free from its fleshy prison and wiped the edge on his tunic, leaving a long smear of sticky blood.

  “Looks like two spaces just opened up on that boat of yours,” he said, and Droswain nodded, walking briskly off towards the waiting boats without another word.

  XXII

  “We are on that one,” said the man she had heard called Droswain, gesturing vaguely to one of the three ships lurking in the shallows of the bay. He was guiding them along the beach, through crowds of people who, for the moment at least, were gathering in an orderly fashion to try and gain a berth on one of the waiting ships. At the shoreline, several small wooden punts were pulled up on to the sand, guarded by grim-faced sailors in the blood crimson of Veria, each armed with a long stave and the short, thick blade the sailors in Lanark called a hanger.

  In front of each punt stood another sailor, sometimes in uniform but often dressed in motley, haggling with pockets of people seeking a voyage away from the beleaguered land they had called home.

  “I know its captain,” the priest continued. “Alas, he is from Sturm, but he is reliable enough if you have the coin. Which reminds me,” he looked back over his shoulder at Beccorban as he walked, his priest’s robes hitched up around his waist to reveal skinny legs that only accentuated his bird-likeness. “You will have to pay for the other three, the two girls and the blond madman. Keep moving, Pimmel!”

  The unfortunate Pimmel was shuffling along at the head of the group and Riella realised that Droswain was using him as a buffer to keep the crowd away from him in the same way that Callistan used his horse. The priest’s tone was casual indifference and she could not help but shake her head at how calm he could be after losing three of his men.

  As they passed more boats and more crowds of people offering money, family heirlooms, and even bonded service, Riella wondered how they were ever going to make it out on to one of the sleek military ships nearby. “We have no coin,” she said. “Will you just leave us here?”

  Droswain thought for a second, then answered with a smile that showed he did not care. “I am not the gatekeeper, lady, I am but the messenger. Our captain will not have unpaid stowaways on his vessel, not even pretty ones.” He leered at her and Riella felt her gorge rise.

  “I have already told you, priest, all of us or none of us,” Beccorban’s voice was a low growl, like an animal warning lost travellers away from his den. “If you want the boy… my son and I, then you will have to think of something.”

  “`Must you be so difficult, old man?” mocked Droswain and Beccorban clenched his fists.

  “Careful, priest. I am not a man of words.”

  “Nor a man of money, apparently.”

  “Maybe I will rip out that silver tongue and use it to buy my passage,” offered Beccorban explosively.

  “Oh come, I’m sure we can work something out — and do stop calling me priest. That particular avenue of address has been closed to me.”

  “What do we call you then?” asked Riella.

  “Droswain will do just fine,” he said and then fell silent as another voice struck up.

  “Outcast.” Riella turned to see Callistan stride past her, leading Crucio by a short rein and eating up the ground with his long legs. He checked his pace alongside the priest-that-was-not-a-priest and Droswain instinctively angled away from the tall warrior’s approach. Instead Callistan matched him step for step and the pointy-headed orator could not retreat without losing face. Riella smiled to herself and then quickly hid it. For all his callousness, the skinny little man was offering them a way off of this blighted land. It would be wise not to offend him. “Droswain is a priest no longer, because he has been exiled for crimes against the gods,” Callistan continued. He, it seemed, had no such qualms.

  Loster touched his head and his heart in the instinctive refrain of one born to religion, but Beccorban simply laughed. “Ha! What did you do, priest? Forget to wear your robes to ceremony?”

  “He broke into a Temple Deep and stole their secrets,” Callistan answered for him. “He broke the vows of the Temple Dawn and sullied the Bond. He betrayed his fellows and risked the wrath of Ghast himsel—”

  “Quiet, you fool!” screamed Droswain in a sudden fury. “Are you so stupid as to speak that name aloud?” Immediately it seemed as though Callistan and Crucio were alone in a moving circle of empty sand. Each of the party and a few eavesdropping members of the crowd around had taken several involuntary steps away from him, as if he were a leper who had forgotten his bell. Though she knew it was a superstitious nonsense, Riella could not help but cringe with dread. All Daegermundi knew of the Black God. Too many knew His true name but it was widely accepted by kings and common folk alike that to speak i
t was to summon misfortune, destruction, and often death. Even men as worldly and as formidable as Beccorban the Helhammer seemed cowed by the utterance of that simple word, the name of the Defiler.

  “We need to speak a blessing,” said Loster quietly. When nobody responded, he began to mutter a series of incantations and spells in Old Verian.

  “That’s enough, Loster,” said Droswain finally. “If He is even listening then I have already offended Him enough to warrant His wrath. We are quite safe. Come, walk with me a while.”

  “He is fine here, priest,” answered Beccorban, stepping closer to the young acolyte.

  Droswain held up a finger. “Not a priest, remember? And where could I possibly go? You are going to have to learn to trust me if I am to get you away from this sinking ship — excuse me, a poor choice of words — if I am to get you away from all this…” he waved his hands around theatrically, “despair.”

  Loster quickened his pace to match the priest’s and, once he was within range, Droswain began to whisper into his ear. Loster was taller than him but not by much, so the exiled priest could easily pour whatever he wanted, honey or poison, straight into the youth’s mind.

  Ahead was a particularly tight-bunched group of people and there were more than a few angry words being thrown about. It would not be long before they replaced words with fists and stones and perhaps even knives, but for the moment the temper of the crowd was holding. This was largely due to the handful of mounted soldiers, mostly veteros and sarifs, who trotted along the top of the beach where the sand dunes became hairy with grass and hard with black rock. They were from the outpost that had been carved from the ruins of Fend and they should have been confident with the fortress at their backs but they were not. Instead they wore nervous expressions and more than once Riella caught them casting glances back towards the distant ramparts of patchwork stone.

  “Can I ride on Crucio again?” asked Mirril sweetly. Riella looked ahead at Callistan who held the reins of the big warhorse loosely in one hand.