Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  A hand shot out and grabbed Beccorban’s arm, and such was his speed that he dragged its owner along with him a ways. It was Riella.

  “What’s happening? I heard the horn but—”

  “The ships.” He grabbed the sides of her face and bored his eyes into hers so that she would understand. “They’re burning the ships.”

  “Wh—”

  “Droswain’s Echoes, Riella. They’re coming.” He released her and continued his run, pumping powerful legs and scaling the slope in great leaps and bounds. He had to get to someone in command, though who that could be he did not know. He quickly came upon the imperial carriage and fought down rage at the lack of activity. As Beccorban approached, the two provosts from the beach stepped forward with their spears lowered.

  “Out of my way, you fools!” he snarled. “Your enemy is nigh but I am not him. Now stand aside!” Before they could obey, the clip-clop of hooves announced the arrival of Callistan. Beccorban looked up at the blond warrior, whose hair was in customary disarray.

  “They will be here soon, hammerman,” said Callistan grimly, without looking at him. “We need to move.”

  “Of course we need to move!” Beccorban snapped and Callistan finally turned his gaze on him, amusement glittering in his eyes.

  The horn sounded again and it passed like a ripple through the soldiers nearby. Fear began as murmured conversation and spilled over into panic as angry shouts began.

  “You!” Beccorban pointed a thick finger at the first provost from the beach. He couldn’t have been much past twenty. “Sound the advance. We are getting off this damned slope.”

  “But I—” the provost began.

  “Do it, man. If you don’t we all die here.”

  The blood drained from the young soldier’s face and he made to move.

  “No. Do it quietly,” Callistan added. “They have enough cause to find our trail without any help from us.” He turned his horse and thundered back up the slope to the head of the column.

  Beccorban watched him go and flexed his hands to stay calm. The hunger was on him again as it had not been for decades, and he could feel Kreyiss straining in the harness on his back, begging to be set free and taste blood once more.

  “Gods help us,” he said aloud, and tried to ignore the youthful faces that looked upon him with expressions of betrayal.

  XXVIII

  “You two, grab your mounts.” Beccorban pointed at a pair of bewildered sarifs. “Ride out ahead of the column and report back to me as soon as you find something defensible. A hill, a wall, even a ditch — anything, you understand?” They both nodded. “Good, now go.” The two young officers raced away, stirring up dust as they went. Beccorban turned to face back down the column. It was beginning to gather some semblance of order now. A few hours ago he would never have imagined that they could work so quickly. Fear. In the right amount it can settle your mind.

  “You there! Excuse me!” A young — Hel, they were all young — officer forced his way through the crowd. He was dressed in crimson plate like the others but his pauldrons were adorned with the three circles of a lommocel. However, most lommocels Beccorban had met were well over thirty summers. This one could not be anything more than twenty five. He had even grown a straggly beard to hide a weak chin.

  “Me here, what?” growled Beccorban.

  The lommocel froze, then remembered himself and stood up straight. “I am Lommocel Operin of the Seventh and I am in temporary command here. Explain yourself.”

  “I do not feel the need, Operin,” said Beccorban, turning his back on the young officer. He did not have time for this.

  “I am going to have to ask you to explain yourself or go elsewhere. You have no authority here.”

  “Well I am taking authority, Lommocel,” said Beccorban, rubbing his brows. “If we are caught here on this path we all die.”

  “So you will not comply?” asked Operin. His voice sounded very fragile.

  “No, Operin, I won’t. Now bugger off and leave me—”

  “Arrest this man!” snapped Operin and Beccorban spun around in shock. Several nearby soldiers started forward with their hands on their weapons but none was senseless enough to draw them. Gods, let me not have to spill blood here, he thought. An idea struck him and he reached behind him to draw Kreyiss. The men froze and Operin’s eyes grew wide.

  “I am not the enemy here, Operin. Do you know what this is?”

  “A war hammer.”

  “No, Operin. This is a killer, a widowmaker. Kreyiss is a drinker of blood and I am her servant, and by all the gods I will not be arrested and thrown in a cell.”

  Operin hesitated and he could see the young officer’s resolve fading, but he had not seen any higher ranked officers anywhere. If he stole this one’s confidence then nobody would follow him. “It’s your decision, Operin, but I am here to help. You need me.”

  Operin hesitated and flexed his hands. “You are the Helhammer,” he whispered at last in a conspirator’s tone.

  “I am he, a proud son of Veria, despite what the Empron’s scribes say about me. Now make your choice.”

  Operin nodded and brushed an imaginary fleck of dirt off of his gaily painted breastplate. “What do you think we should do?”

  Beccorban grinned and clapped the young lommocel on the back and then barked out a flurry of orders. As they set about organising themselves, he caught more than a few glances aimed at him, as though seeking his approval. They will follow you now, as if you were Illis himself, he thought. Men followed confidence and, though he might not feel it, he had to make sure he showed it.

  “Beccorban! What is going on?” Droswain came running up the path, face flushed with exertion. Loster was with him, loping alongside. The boy looked scared.

  “They have found us, priest, sooner than we thought they might.”

  “Do you need me to do anything?” asked Loster.

  “No! No, Loster,” said Droswain. “We need to get you to safety.”

  “Find Riella,” Beccorban spoke over the priest. “Get her and Mirril to the front of the column. We’re moving soon. You won’t have much time.”

  Loster nodded and set off with Droswain in pursuit, still complaining. Beccorban chuckled to himself and turned back to the task before him. There were a handful of men waiting for his word like petitioners in a kingly court, Operin at their head. He gathered together the sarifs and the handful of missels — the most junior of junior officers. All of them seemed entirely too young for their roles but he could not change that. They would form ranks of six abreast. The path could easily accommodate them at that breadth. The wagons would be left behind, all except one on which all of the arrows and bolts were to be piled.

  “Sir,” Operin raised his hand. “What about the supplies? The shields? If we’re besieged…”

  Beccorban stilled him with a hand. “We won’t be a part of any siege, la— Lommocel.” It was a sensible question and he did not want to shame the young officer by being too familiar. He pictured again the broken walls of Kressel, strong enough to withstand the rage of the Scoldsee but broken by the implacable enemy that hunted them. “Our aim is to go unnoticed, not to meet the enemy head on. Not yet anyway, we are not ready. Wagons are slow. Our foe is not.”

  Operin nodded. “And the shields?”

  “Carry them. Your shield is your best friend. We march at double speed. You,” he pointed, “will take fifty of the fleetest men as a rearguard. How many horses do we have?”

  “Twenty, sir, maybe more if we include the pack animals.”

  He grunted. “It’s not enough. Where are the bloody Dalukar when you need them?” Some laughed nervously. “The horsemen will be our screens, ten at the front and ten at our backs. We can’t afford any on the flanks, it’s too overgrown.”

  “Sir, what of the Empron’s carriage?”

  “That eyesore? We’ll leave it behind as a gift for anyone with bad taste.” More laughter. “Don’t worry about Illis.” He looked back
up the column where the carriage was hidden behind a bend in the path. “I’ll deal with the Empron.”

  A scream rang out in the evening and Beccorban immediately reached for Kreyiss. He was too late. They were all going to die.

  Riella stumbled along the column, dodging the frantic soldiers as they ran around aimlessly. Just when they had thought they were safe, the Echoes were on them again. They were relentless. She felt the first flutters of despair stir in her belly but forced herself to focus on the now. She smiled. That must be something she had learned from Beccorban. The old bastard was rubbing off on her. She heard his voice and saw him surrounded by soldiers. He was talking to them, giving out orders with the ease of command he possessed. The Helhammer was back. They would need him now if they were to make it out of this alive.

  Callistan too. She thought of the horseman and the look on his face as he exploded from the Empron’s tent. It was the face he had worn when he attacked them in the orchard: jagged hurt, cool anger. At first she had thought he was leaving them there and then. Callistan had made straight for Crucio and leapt on to his back, but instead of riding away he had trotted up towards Illis’ carriage. He had seemed to be following it, keeping pace with the imperial procession as ably as any member of the Provost Guard.

  The imperial carriage was somewhere up ahead, so he must be near. She needed to find him, to speak to him, ask him to stay. He was dangerous, and that made him an asset they could not afford to lose.

  “Riella!” A hand grabbed her arm and she turned to see Loster and the priest. “Beccorban said we’re to move to the head of the column. Where is Mirril?”

  Riella blinked. “She was sleeping on one of the wagons. You’ll have to go back—”

  “No, we all need to stay together.”

  Riella was not used to this confidence from Loster and it annoyed her. Ever since they had left the ship he had become louder and more forthright. Happier, almost. Droswain might think that he was their saviour but to her he was still a boy, wet behind the ears. “Let go of me.”

  Loster stepped closer. “But Beccorban said—”

  “I don’t care. Let me go.” She yanked her hand back and stormed away.

  “Where are you going?” Loster called after her. “I can’t let you walk away.”

  It’s none of your business, she thought to herself. She wanted to say that it was his fault; it must have been him the Echoes were after. If he was who Droswain said he was they would want him dead. However, she held back her barbed tongue. He had saved her, after all. “Go and find Mirril, Loster. I don’t take orders from Beccorban. He knows that well enough.” She turned back up the path, facing towards Illis’ carriage. There was a clash of metal and then a scream. Several soldiers near her heard it, but none did anything other than look around in confusion.

  Loster came to her side with Droswain hovering nearby. “It’s begun,” he said quietly.

  “We need to get you somewhere safe,” muttered Droswain and Riella realised with amusement that he meant Loster and not her.

  “I don’t think there is anywhere safe to go,” said Loster.

  “Wait,” Riella held up a hand to hush them. “It can’t be the Echoes. There’s no way they could have got ahead of us so soon.” She thought of the look on Callistan’s face when he had emerged from the imperial tent and something clicked in her head. Gods, please let me be wrong. “Quick!” She darted forward and the others followed.

  They raced up the path, past stunned soldiers and wagons hastily being relieved of their burdens. As they neared the imperial carriage, all was chaos. A conscript and several provosts lay dead on the ground, while around the carriage itself there was a ring of soldiers with nervous faces. They had drawn their weapons though none yet had gathered the strength to use them. Crucio stood off to one side, pawing the ground and looking down as though he were ashamed.

  “What’s going on here?” demanded Riella. “Who killed these men?” A few turned in her direction, but none spoke. Then a voice rose in hatred from inside the carriage and all her fears were confirmed.

  “Why?!” A torn sound, showing the raw anguish beneath. “Tell me why!”

  “Callistan,” said Droswain breathlessly. “I knew he was trouble.” The priest stepped forward and turned to the crowd, raising his hands. “He’s going to kill the Empron!”

  The crowd surged forward.

  Beccorban pushed through the mob just as it started to move. He saw the priest with his arms outstretched and the dead men on the ground, hands still clutched around their weapons, and immediately he knew what was happening. Strangely it made him feel relieved. “Hold!” he snarled at the top of his voice and the soldiers faltered then stopped.

  Droswain wheeled on him and his voice was manic. “I told you he was a mad dog, Helhammer.” Droswain almost choked on the last word as he realised his indiscretion but swiftly recovered and stood with his back straight. “He needs to be put down.”

  Beccorban jabbed a thick finger into the priest’s chest and drove him back into the crowd. It did not matter that Droswain had used that name. Not anymore. He was in charge now. That much was clear from the way the men were looking at him, the way they had come to him for instruction. They were scared and, to them at least, it seemed that he was not. He stepped back into the open space around Illis’ carriage. “Horseman!” he cried.

  Silence.

  “We don’t have time for this, Beccorban!”

  He held up a hand. “Speak again, priest, and I’ll twist your head off of your shoulders.”

  Droswain went pale and shrank back into the crowd. Beccorban breathed out in a great sigh. All eyes were on him. For the first time in decades he did not have to hide. It made him feel strong. A small voice deep down told him that he should feel shame but shame was a harder beast to conjure in company. Men did not follow humility. “Callistan!” he called. “Come out. You have an old friend of mine in there.”

  There was a pause and then a whimper, and the Empron was thrown from the carriage to land heavily in the dust. A few soldiers went forward to help him up but then Callistan stepped lithely down from the carriage and strolled over to his victim. The tall horseman reached down and casually gripped the Empron by his long silver hair, twisting it savagely and drawing Illis up into a kneeling position. Callistan cocked his head to one side and grimaced. “This is familiar,” he said.

  Beccorban ignored Callistan for the moment. He had the wild look in his eyes that Beccorban had only seen when he was fighting. Callistan would not hear reason right now. “Hello, Illis,” he said instead. “It has been a long time, old friend.”

  The Empron looked up at Beccorban and, for the first time in over twenty years, Beccorban looked back — truly looked this time. Illis’ hair hung in thick grey ropes, damp with sweat and filthy with dust. His eyes were glassy and vacant and one was swollen shut like a simian mouth. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and there was a dark and sticky-looking patch on his forehead where it had impacted the earth. His face was wet with something else — it looked like he had been crying. Who was this man? The Illis of Beccorban’s memory was a proud and vain man. Even after his suffering in Fend the Empron had stood tall and straight, viewing his crippled arm as a badge of honour, a mark of his role in the overthrow of the hated Respini. This bent-backed creature was nothing like the man he had known.

  “Friend? Whose friend?” said Illis in a wavering voice. “Who are you? What are you all looking at?” His eyes darted around the crowd like a nervous child. “What do you want from me?”

  “Ask him if he remembers you, greybeard. Go on, ask him.” Callistan twisted Illis’ hair again and the Empron moaned in agony.

  “Callistan, don’t do this.” Riella stepped forward to join Beccorban.

  The horseman ignored her. “Ask him, Helhammer.”

  Illis’ eyes lit up and he raised his hands together as though they were manacled at the wrist, to point them at Beccorban. “You! You are him. You’re Becc
orban. But no, no, he is dead, dead!” He looked up at Callistan. “Can’t be him!”

  “Quiet!” Callistan drove a knee into Illis’ back and he cried out again. “He won’t remember you, Beccorban. He can’t because he’s not the Empron. He is a slipskin, like the traitor on the Lussido, like the captain of the Fallow Deer, like anyone here could be. They are everywhere. We are riddled, Beccorban, as riddled as a ship’s biscuit.”

  A ripple of disquiet went through the crowd.

  Droswain laughed. “Nonsense! How dare you make such accusations. Get away from him.”

  Callistan laughed back. “You have far too much use for your tongue, priest.” He turned back to Beccorban. “Listen to me. I have killed these things before. They took…” he paused. “They took my family from me. I’m telling you that this thing is not the Empron, merely a good imitation.”

  “You have no proof,” Droswain sneered.

  “Oh, believe me, priest. I have all the proof I need.” With that, Callistan pushed Illis forward on to his hands and knees. As the Empron sprawled, the horseman brought up his falcata and chopped it down. Illis screamed and blood misted in the evening. Several soldiers started forwards but Beccorban was fastest. He threw his fist into Callistan’s face and knocked the horseman on to his back in an explosion of dust. The soldiers pointed bared blades at him but Beccorban screamed, “Leave him!” He stood over Callistan. “What have you done? I can’t protect you from this.”

  A hiss of agony from behind made him turn. Illis had climbed to his feet and was clutching the stump of his arm. His white robes were stained with bright red blood.

  Callistan began to laugh, blood streaming down his face from his broken nose. It was a manic noise that seemed to require all of his breath. “Can’t you smell him, Helhammer? Can’t you smell his deceit?”

  Beccorban knelt to pick up Illis’ severed arm and then recoiled as something long and milky white slithered from it. It too was an arm but unlike any he had ever seen, fleshy and translucent with eerily long fingers, each like a worm.