by Tom Stacey
A slipskin. Beccorban felt his stomach turn over.
Reality returned to him with a rush and he heard the beating of hooves.
“It’s the scouts, sir. They’ve returned!” someone cried.
He nodded and stood, trying not to think about the horror that Callistan had uncovered. When he spoke, his voice carried to everybody. “Good news, I hope.” He pointed at Callistan. “Bind that man in irons. The Emp— that thing too. And be quick about it. Night is upon us and our enemy is close.”
Night fell as a sepulchral blanket and before long they were making their way by moonlight, trusting that the clouds would stay scattered and not plunge them into total darkness. It was a wild land of thick forests and high hills but there was a peace here. Though their situation was desperate, Loster felt comfortable. The shadows did not hold the inky menace of other shadows, the trees — tall pines — seemed older and gentler somehow, the usually straight trunks warped with age into softer shapes. A voice in his mind told him to step off the path into the darkness and there be hidden.
“They will still find you,” said another, louder voice. “We called them, you and I. They are coming.”
Loster rubbed his temple with the point of his finger and pushed Barde back down. There would be time for him yet. He had tried to block out the voice, tried to be more forthright in his own thoughts, but he had only managed rudeness. He thought of his earlier interaction with Riella. How foolish to try and tame her. What had he been thinking?
“You were thinking about what she has between her legs. Careful she doesn’t use that knife on you. She has a name for it, you know?”
Loster took a deep breath of frosty air and imagined Barde shivering inside his head. It made him feel better.
Though night had fallen, the sky at their backs was still an inferno. It drove them on, a promise of what might await them if they slowed their pace. Few of them spoke, indeed, what was there to say? Finally they stopped climbing and their pace quickened on the level ground. Loster noticed rider after rider thunder past, each on an unknown errand. It amazed him how quickly Beccorban had wrested control of the group, but then he was the Helhammer. Sins were quickly forgotten when the need was dire.
“Look there,” said a nearby soldier. Others began to chatter excitedly until a sarif snapped at them to be silent. Loster looked ahead to see what the fuss was about. Below them was an open plain. It was dotted with clumps of trees but was otherwise exposed, washed in a pearly glow. In the centre of the plain, atop a slightly raised plateau, was what had once been a fortress. It was mostly ruins now but in some places the walls were still higher than a man. Two towers stood, though one leaned crookedly in over the inner courtyard and the other, further back, was missing its top half, as though a great axe had cut it in two. They began their descent, aiming for the ancient ruins.
Before long, they had struck well out on to the plain. The land was not as flat as it had seemed from above; it was broken here and there by gullies and dry riverbeds that folded in over each other. As they approached the fortress, Loster stepped out from the column so that he might get a better view. The walls were cut from a dark stone, as thick as a horse was wide. Each block had been chewed by the hungry mouth of time so that the seams between them, perhaps once rendered invisible by a master mason, were now ugly wounds in the stone. There were many places where the wall was little more than knee high yet in at least two corner sections it rose to almost twenty feet.
As the soldiers filed inside, Loster climbed closer and ran a hand over the rough, time-ravaged stone. It was warm to the touch, even in the cool of the night. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the noble Dalvossi who had built this. Did they share his fears? Had these walls repelled such strange enemies before?
“Wondrous, isn’t it?”
Loster turned to see Droswain standing behind him. The small priest had approached almost silently and stood now in the moonlight, just outside the hard shadows cast by the wall.
“I think this was probably a trading station.” He walked closer, lifting his robes like a woman would hitch up her skirts. “That is the real strength of an empire. Not armies or warriors. Trade. Money.”
“High walls for a trading post.”
“Of course. Men of violence are always necessary. The wealthier you become, the more people will seek to take from you. But swords do not build, Loster. Gentler ways are needed for that.”
Loster nodded though he was struggling to find the merits of civility in his current situation. He looked back up towards the distant ridge where he had stood a few hours before. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the serried ranks of the Dremon lining the crest, brutal and efficient warriors come to rescue them. A phantom relief swelled in his stomach and died as quickly. From here it would be difficult to tell the difference between friend and foe.
“What will we do if the Echoes find us here? Do you expect me to lead the line?”
“What?” Droswain frowned. “Of course not.”
“Isn’t that what heroes do?” Loster knew he sounded surly but he did not care. It seemed petty to worry about manners while standing next to the bones of an entire civilisation.
“Loster, you misunderstand. You are not the Dread, nor are you expected to be. I wish I could tell you that there will be no fighting but that would be a lie. Yet that doesn’t mean you are supposed to beat the Echoes single-handedly.”
“I couldn’t even kill one, Droswain!” Loster’s voice broke and he felt tears threaten. “I am not made for this.”
“You killed the traitor on the Lussido.”
“I stabbed him in the back in the dark. Not very heroic.”
Droswain stepped to his side. The small priest took him by the hand and though his grip was cool and dry it was too cool and too dry, like the skin of a snake. “You are a symbol, Loster. That is all. Look at the men with us. They are afraid and they have every right to be. I doubt any of them has ever raised a sword in anger. We could be all that is left of Veria and that is a scary thought, but when I tell them of you…” the small priest laughed to himself. “You shall be the balm that soothes their fears, Loster. You shall be the rallying point, else all is lost.” He released Loster’s hand. “Now come. Stop looking at the ruins. They’re making you maudlin.”
XXIX
Callistan and Illis were led to the entrance of the broken tower. Behind them, its crooked sister hung drunkenly over the courtyard, casting a dark shadow across the mossy stones. Any door had long since rotted away but the arched stone portal was still intact, with steps leading down into a cool, musty chamber. Two tunnels that had been swimming in shadow for centuries grew from the chamber. The prisoners were separated and led down opposite tunnels. Each was confined to one of the cramped rooms that fed off of the tunnels, with only bars of rusted iron to turn the rooms into cells. Guards were placed on both of them, and torches were nestled in ancient sconces nearby to light the way.
Riella took advantage of the general confusion outside to slip down into the tunnels. She had tried to argue with Beccorban about Callistan’s imprisonment — after all, he had revealed an enemy in their midst — but the big man was too busy for any discussion, planning for the next stage of their journey. He had snapped at her to be quiet and continued with his new role as leader. He seemed to be enjoying it. He didn’t have to hide any more.
She stepped into the chamber under the tower, careful to step around the puddles of brackish water that had formed there. A hand gripped her wrist and she looked up into the eyes of a young conscript.
“You’re lost, lady. These are the dungeons.”
She shook herself out of his grip and stepped back a pace. “I know where I am, thank you. I bring a message for the Lord Callistan. Tell me, which way do I go?”
The conscript shook his head. “No lords here, just prisoners. You need to leave.”
Riella stood up straight. “My message comes from Beccorban himself. Am I to tell him you sent me away?”
“The Helhammer?” His face grew pale. “He sent you?”
“Of course. You must have seen us talking?” It was funny, Riella thought, how these men, no doubt raised on stories of Beccorban’s monstrous crimes, had adopted him as their leader. Invoking his name gave them a visible pride but it was still a name that inspired fear and now that emotion was written all over this young man’s face. “I suggest you point me in the direction of the Lord Callistan.”
The conscript swallowed and then ushered her into the leftmost tunnel. It smelt of moss and wet stone, rich and earthy. A few torches lit the floor in orange blooms but the rest was black and hidden, undisturbed from a lengthy slumber. Another conscript leaned against the wall halfway down the tunnel and rapidly stood up straight when he saw them approach.
“Open the gate, Tellisk.”
Tellisk frowned. “But I thought—”
“Just open it.”
Tellisk nodded and turned to a set of rusted iron bars. There was no key but two spears had been jammed into the gaps as makeshift locking bars.
“That’s not going to hold anyone for long,” Riella observed.
“We’re not supposed to be here for long,” said the first soldier. “It will hold for as long as it needs to.”
“Besides, we’re here if he gets past,” said Tellisk.
Riella looked at him and could see no traces of mirth on his chubby features. She held her tongue.
Callistan was in another room at the end of a corridor behind the gate. They had driven an iron spike into the ground and looped the manacles that bound his wrists together through it so that he was forced to sit with his legs stretched out before him, his hands resting on his thighs. He looked up when she entered, though he did not smile. His face was cool indifference lit by warm orange, his broken nose casting a shadow across his features. She felt a warmth in her belly, and wondered if she was mad.
“Leave us,” she said to the two guards. Tellisk tried to argue but was pulled away by his companion. Finally they were alone. “How are you?” she asked.
He did not reply straight away and she thought he would ignore her, then he finally said, “I have been a prisoner before, wrongfully then as well.”
She stepped closer. “I have spoken to Beccorban. He has a lot to think about at the moment…” she stopped as Callistan began to chuckle. “Sorry, did I say something funny?”
“Is that why I’m here, because I gave the greybeard a headache?”
“He was very close to Illis,” she said quietly.
“And I was not?” he roared. “I am an Imperial Marshall, Riella. I may have lost my memory but I have not lost my wits. I handed you your enemy and now,” he rattled his manacles, “I am here.”
“It wasn’t my decision.”
“Then set me free.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I won’t betray Beccorban again.”
Callistan sighed. “Of course. You and the greybeard. I’ll admit, I didn’t see it.”
“What?” she snapped. Was he accusing her of sleeping with Beccorban? “How dare you!”
“A prisoner dares many things, Riella.” He looked up at her and his eyes were as green as deep pools, with none of the malice of his words. “He’s not rich, you know? That’s all creatures like you live for.”
She screamed with rage and fell to her knees before him, flashing Esha up to rest just beneath his jugular. “I could kill you,” she hissed.
His voice was maddeningly calm. “Then why haven’t you already?”
“Are you okay, lady?” The voice of the first conscript came from behind her.
“Yes, thank you. Please don’t let me keep you from your duties.” She listened until she was sure the guards were gone, then she sheathed Esha, placing the blade back in the leather scabbard she wore on her thigh. She looked into Callistan’s eyes and then gripped his chin and kissed him briefly on the lips. He tasted of salt and earth and she fought the urge to linger. She could see from the look on his face that she had caught him off guard but his mask quickly slipped back down. “I am more than a whore, Callistan. The last man who thought otherwise died in a very ugly way.”
Callistan hung his head. “Why are you here, Riella? To mine me for information? I can tell you now that I know little.”
Riella stood. “No, you’re right. You’re empty.”
She turned and walked away from him, asking herself why she had come at all. She felt light-headed but she told herself it was because she had stood too quickly.
As Beccorban moved towards the tower, he noticed Droswain and Loster hovering outside.
“Beccorban!” Droswain waved as he spotted him. “When are we moving on? I’ve noticed some of the men putting down bedrolls. They can’t surely be thinking of sleeping?”
“All in good time, priest. Boy…Loster,” he corrected himself. “Come with me.” If he was to start the young man’s training, now was as good a time as any. He marched into the chamber under the tower and grunted as he collided with a small figure. He recognised Riella and failed to keep the shock from his face. “What are you doing here?”
“She was delivering a mess—…” the young guardsman trailed off as doubt took him.
Riella glared at him and defiance danced in her eyes alongside the glint from the torch flames.
“I’ll deal with you later, lass. Now stand aside.” Riella paused then stepped from his path, waiting until he had passed to join the back of his train of young officers. Beccorban scowled at the unfortunate guardsman and the youth had the good sense to hang his head. He could not be judged too harshly. He was not the first man of duty to be snared by a pair of pretty eyes.
Beccorban followed the path to the right tunnel and felt a tugging at his elbow.
“You’re going to question the slipskin,” said Riella. “Shall I fetch Callistan?”
Beccorban blinked at her and pulled himself free of her grasp. She had that determined look on her face, as though she was ready for a fight. She had been more and more distant ever since the Lussido. Only in his wildest fantasies had he imagined her a lover but he had thought her support infallible. He carried on down the tunnel, nodding at the conscripts tasked with guarding Illis’ cell. “And why would he be necessary?”
“Because he has seen them before. He knows more about slipskins than anyone here. One tried to kill him!”
Beccorban nodded at the guards to open the rusted gate. “And he tried to kill one back.”
Riella scowled at him and tugged on his arm again. She did not have the strength to pull him around but he stopped and faced her nonetheless. “Don’t do this, Beccorban. You can’t tell me it’s wise to keep him out.”
He gripped her by the shoulders and leaned in close. “What hold does he have on you, girl? He is a madman, a wild animal.”
“A wild animal that bested you.”
Her words stung and he felt like striking her. Sudden guilt smothered his rage. Is that all it takes? Do you don the cloak you once wore so easily? He lowered his voice. “I keep him caged to protect him from himself. Be careful how far you let him in, Riella. You might be convinced by how well he wears his mask, how he plays with the girl, Mirril, and rides his horse like an aristocrat, but I’ve seen him unleashed. Affection for that man is barbed.”
Riella opened her mouth to say something, but then she bit her lip and spun away. He ground his teeth together. Foolish girl.
Beccorban stepped through the metal gate, followed by his entourage of sarifs and Operin, the company’s only lommocel. The group followed a low corridor that led in to a small chamber with a ceiling of curved stone. On the wall was a steel spike from which hung a pair of iron manacles, yet they were empty. Instead, the creature they had called Illis sat in the corner. His silver hair hung over his face and his knees were drawn up to his chest. His white robes were completely caked with blood and filth and whatever else coursed through a slipskin’s veins. The group shuffled into the small room. Out of the corner of h
is eye Beccorban noticed Droswain ushering Loster to the front.
“Sorry we didn’t use the chains, sir,” murmured one of the guards. “It didn’t seem right.”
Beccorban ignored the man and cleared his throat. “Illis.”
The slipskin flinched as if struck, then began to mumble to himself.
“What is he saying?” Droswain wondered aloud.
“I don’t know, sir. He’s been ranting like that since we brought him in.”
“Well didn’t you tell him to stop?”
The other guardsman stepped forward. “I did, sir, but it only made him worse.” He pointed at the stone ceiling. “He was saying something about the echoes.”
Illis leapt to his feet in one violent movement and ran forward to grab the soldier with his one arm. “Echoes!” the slipskin screamed. “They are here already. Let me go! Please let me go!”
“Get if off me!” the soldier cried and lashed out with a gauntleted arm, knocking Illis to the floor. Illis curled up into a ball and began to keen like a wounded animal. The soldier stepped forward with a drawn sword.
“Hold!” Beccorban raised his arms and waited for the reverberation to die down.
“Gods, look at him…at it,” said Loster.
Beccorban stared down at the mewling slipskin. It was not the man he knew, but whatever it was, it was terrified. He stepped forward and crouched by the slipskin’s side.
“Illis,” he whispered, and then again. Illis looked up at him and his eyes were oddly human. “You know me.” The slipskin nodded. “How?”
“How?” Illis asked, struggling to form the word with his borrowed mouth.
“Yes, how? You are not really Illis.”
The slipskin growled low in his throat. “I am your Empron! How dare you question me! Guards! Arrest this man!”
Beccorban knotted his brows. Not only a slipskin but mad as well, or at least desperate. He looked back towards Droswain but the priest simply shrugged. Behind him, Illis’ slipskin began to cry.