Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  Soon the ground before the walls was a morass of mud and each of them was drenched to the bone. Beccorban tried to ignore the human head lying on the ground some twenty yards away. If the Rider had been speaking the truth it belonged to Illis, his one time friend, the man he had raised to power. Would it be weakness to go and pick it up? Yes, he decided. Now was not the time. Besides, Illis was dead to you decades ago.

  He distracted himself by scanning the shadows ahead, looking for the first glint of tall knights or whatever was coming for them from the darkness. “Where are they?” he asked no one, clenching his teeth. His hand ached, and he realised he was gripping Kreyiss too tight, so he switched it to his left and flexed the old bones there. Patience, he told himself.

  A shadow within a shadow shifted slightly and then disappeared. The man behind him tried to vomit again, but his stomach was empty and instead he gagged with a weird honking noise. More shadows moved, sliding over each other and morphing until Beccorban could not be sure whether he was looking at one or a thousand Echoes.

  He raised Kreyiss on high, feeling the drops of water from her head fall on to his face. “Here they come! Remember they bleed like you and I, they’re just more stubborn!” Some half-hearted cheers rang out but all else was silent anticipation. “Archers!” he raised his fist and the score of men on the wall to the left lifted their bows. “Loose!” The bowstrings twanged and twenty arrows or bolts flew through the air to be instantly swallowed by the night. “At will!” He gave the order and stepped back down off of the wall, making sure his enemies would have something to clamber over while he decided how to kill them. The archers kept up their discordant staccato with something approaching rhythm and Beccorban could hear the whispers of missiles slicing through the air, and the distant ugly thuds where some struck home in flesh.

  The approaching shapes faltered and then seemed to pick up speed and Beccorban narrowed his eyes. Were they having an effect? Operin stepped forward on the right to join him, smiling nervously, and Beccorban acknowledged him with a nod. Usually he would keep all officers at the back to relay orders and keep discipline but then this was not a usual fight. Strategy was for pitched battles and, though their situation was desperate, this would be little more than a skirmish. Bravery ruled supreme here. He felt the urge to laugh. The Helhammer killed in a rain-soaked skirmish. Maybe it was a good thing that the bards thought he was already dead. They will be hard pressed to make a song out of this one.

  The moon had been hidden briefly behind a wisp of cloud but now it shone down bright on to the killing ground before the ruined walls, revealing the shambling figures that came towards them. Beccorban swore loudly.

  They were humans, each naked and mutilated like the prisoners on the Lussido, their arms cut off at the shoulder to leave gaping wounds, black blood spilling over white bone. Had he not seen it before he would have voided his stomach. “Archers cease!” He waved the archers down and they looked across at him in confusion.

  He had been played again. His already impotent force was now hamstrung by the knowledge that they had just killed innocents and all he could do was keep his men where they were, forcing them to watch their fellow humans writhe on the ground and die in front of them. Those that had been struck by arrows were down but the others stumbled on, preferring to face the death offered by their own rather than the horror at their backs. He wondered how many had come willingly, seizing the chance to gain the sweet release of death.

  A series of hushed conversations broke out behind him and he listened as the young officers called for quiet, the tremors in their voices betraying their own doubts. What he would give for a seasoned vetero! He needed time to think, but he did not have it, for more shapes — tall shapes — were moving in the darkness and these ones came fast.

  “Hold your ground!” he bellowed. He could feel the rage boiling up in him again and Kreyiss’ haft felt hot where he held her. She was ready. “Necks, thighs, and bellies, men. By the gods let’s make them bleed!”

  Then there was nothing more to say, for the enemy was upon them.

  Loster threw himself forward under a swinging blade and ducked behind his shield. Ever since the heavy, awkward thing had been strapped to his arm he had resented it but now he saw its worth. He drove it forward like a ram and came up hard against his opponent’s body, swearing as his head crashed into the wood. He had lost his helmet some time earlier and wished he had a moment to stoop down and find it. A heavy blade swung with incredible force bit into the top of his shield, slicing through the iron rim and embedding itself in the layers of wood beneath. He tried to stab around the edge of the shield but it was a weak blow and it glanced off of something hard. These were not the dread knights that had caught him in the forest but they were still tall and impossibly strong. Each was dressed in long robes that seemed at once voluminous and yet tight-fitting, serving to disguise the wearer’s body but not hindering their movement any. Loster had already figured that they wore some more practical protection underneath, but twice he had lashed out with his sword and twice he had found soft flesh — though in neither instance was he sure of a kill.

  The Echo facing him tried to jerk his weapon free and Loster felt panic rise as the shield pitched forward. He made an effort to pull it back, digging his heels into the soft turf and dropping his weight to one knee, but the Echo was too powerful. An idea landed in his head like a gift and he clutched at it with sticky fingers. He stood suddenly, straightening his left arm, and the shield slipped off. The Echo fell backwards and Loster took his opportunity, lunging forward with his sword held out ahead of him to pierce his enemy’s chest. He had put his whole weight behind it and the Echo was pinned to the ground like one of the insects in Aifayne’s workshop.

  He felt the joy of battle course through his veins and half-closed his eyes at the ecstasy of it. He could feel his enemy writhing on the end of the blade. It was a sensation like none Loster had ever enjoyed before and now he understood why others liked to fight, to test their strength against each other. It was a savage, primal feeling that made his blood buzz in his ears and the fibres of his muscles quiver with energy.

  He opened his eyes to see another Echo coming at him, sword raised, and he tugged at his own weapon, realising with a dawning horror that he had not twisted it and that it was now trapped in the Echo’s corpse. He threw himself backwards to avoid the new attacker’s furious swing and landed heavily in the mud, crying out as the rim of his armour dug into the small of his back. The Echo grinned viciously and came on, stepping over his comrade’s fallen body and raising his hooked blade high overhead. Loster looked around for help but those around him were fighting just as desperately for their lives. None had time to come and save a frightened boy.

  Loster closed his eyes and waited for Barde’s mocking tones, but none came. Instead a new voice spoke in his head. Up! it said. Get up and fight! Loster realised with a start that it was his own voice, his own thoughts, so unlike the sharp tongue of his long dead brother. Make them pay, said the voice. Make them fear you.

  Loster’s eyes snapped open and he heaved himself on to his belly just as the Echo swung downwards. The blade glanced off the back of his pauldron, sending jarring vibrations down his arm and then burying itself in the soft ground. The Echo screamed with frustration and Loster pushed himself to his knees, looking around for a weapon. You are a weapon, you fool. Use your brain! Loster dug his fingers into the earth and tore free a clump of wet mud. He made himself fall backwards again as the Echo attempted a savage sideways cut that would have decapitated him. As he fell he threw the mud as hard as he could. It slapped into the Echo’s face, covering his eyes and open mouth, and the huge creature staggered forward, falling to its knees and gagging for breath. Loster clambered to his feet again and kicked the Echo as hard as he could in the throat. He felt something break and pain shot up his leg so that he thought he had broken his toe. But whatever damage he had done to himself was worth it, for the Echo pitched forward on to its fac
e, convulsing like a boned fish.

  Loster gulped down air like a drowning man. I do need a weapon, he thought. I can’t go around flinging mud. For the first time in weeks he could not even sense Barde’s presence in his mind. He felt free.

  The battle had moved on past him. They seemed to be winning — if it could be called winning — pushing the Echoes back into the open ground and advancing along the whole line. Beccorban was somewhere in the crowd and Loster thought he should go and find him. He told himself that it made sense to stay with the main focus of the battle but he knew that he wanted to show himself off. Look, Beccorban. I am a warrior too now. He heard faint laughter and realised it belonged to him.

  He found the Echo who had taken his shield and yanked his blade from its body. He bent to rescue his shield but then stopped. The Echo’s own sword lay on the ground nearby. Loster picked it up with his free hand and marvelled at the lightness of it. It was a short, hooked blade that struck out straight from the simple wooden hilt before curving outwards like a sickle. This was the weapon that had bit into his shield as though it were cutting through cheesecloth. It made Loster’s own heavy shortsword feel clumsy by comparison. He drove the point of his sword into the mud, leaving it there, and quickly found another of the curious hooked blades. He had very little formal training and so had not developed a favoured hand but the swords felt equally comfortable in both and he gave a few practice swings, seeing if he could wield them without hurting himself. Satisfied, he scanned the crowd ahead to make out Beccorban’s huge figure and loped off to rejoin the fight.

  Beccorban caught an enemy blade on Kreyiss’ head and used the haft to trip his opponent. As the Echo fell he brought the killing end down to crush its skull and then ripped it free, lifting it again to face the next threat. Yet there were no more threats. As he looked around he saw that all along the line of battle the Echoes were either dead or dying. The only ones left standing were men, his men. They had held.

  If only this could be the end of it. Yet he knew that, like the battle for the Lussido, this would be a testing move. The real fight was yet to come.

  “Back to the walls!” he shouted, urging those that had spilled over the ruins to return to its scanty protection. He did not know what surprises the Echoes had in store for his men but he knew it would be worse. He tried to do a quick head count of the men left standing. Of the four hundred, all but one of the archers had survived and there were around three hundred still left on the ground. He sighed. Too many lost. He could not spare any men to tend the wounded. They would have to be taken inside somewhere. Perhaps Callistan would not mind sharing his cell with the dying.

  He shook his head as a feeling of shame overcome him. Why are you keeping the horseman there? Is it really to protect him as you say, or is it something more? Is it the girl? He caught some rain on his hand and sucked the moisture from his fingers. The weather was improving but the rain still made things greasy and any footing treacherous. A few times he had found himself slipping in the mud, only sheer will keeping him upright. It mattered not. Soon they would be forced to fall back farther into the courtyard where the floor was made up of old flagstones. They should provide more grip. You’re distracting yourself from the matter at hand. He cursed softly. He did not need to keep the horseman locked up. They needed every man they could get and Callistan was a devastating foe.

  A hand reached out to touch him and he spun around, surprised to see Riella standing there. She had found a helmet and balanced it precariously on her head, and resting on her shoulder was a battered old sword that seemed almost as large as her. “What are you doing here, girl?” he asked, wishing he had not called her girl.

  He saw the spark of anger in her eyes. “I’ve come to fight.”

  “Fight? You should be inside with Mirril and the others.”

  “What others? The priest? No, if I’m going to die then I’d rather be out here with a sword in my hand.”

  Beccorban laughed and she scowled at him.

  “What is so funny, old man?”

  “Nothing, lass. I don’t mean to mock, truly I don’t.” He sighed and sat down on a huge lump of black stone that had fallen from the battlements long ago. “In truth we need every sword we have. But stay near the back, mind.” He pointed at her. “I’ll not have you throwing your life away unless there’s no other choice.”

  Riella did not respond straight away. Instead she lifted the heavy blade from her shoulder and lowered the tip to the ground, using both hands to grip it. She sat beside him on the block of stone and when she spoke her voice was quiet, pleading. He already knew what she had come to ask. “Let me free Callistan. Give him his weapon. You know as well as I that we could use him. He is almost as good as you.”

  Beccorban laughed. “Better than me, lass.”

  Riella blushed red. “I did not mean what I said before.”

  “You did, and you were right. He bested me. He’s a marvel in battle, lass. Like none I’ve ever fought. All the fury of a berserker but with none of the carelessness. Every time I tried to hit him he was there already, as if he had seen it coming. I never did get a square knock on the bugger.”

  “You did break his nose,” Riella offered.

  He laughed again and this time Riella laughed with him. It felt good, like they had torn down whatever barrier had arisen between them. “Free the mad bastard,” he said. “We’re going to need him before this fight is out.”

  Riella placed a cool hand on his and he twisted his wrist, clutching her palm before she could pull it back. “Thank you, Beccorban,” she said. She looked over at the battered and bruised conscripts and he followed her gaze.

  They looked exhausted, blood-stained and encrusted with filth but also proud. They had fought well, better than he had ever expected them to. Amongst them, Loster strode with a straight back. Curiously he had dropped his shield and lost his helmet and he wore two of the strange curved blades used by the Echoes. Beccorban had not had time to inspect the enemy’s swords but perhaps he should ask Loster about them.

  “Do you think we can survive this?” Riella asked.

  He hung his head, lowering his voice to avoid errant ears. No, he thought. “I haven’t been beaten yet, lass. I don’t mean to start now. People would talk.”

  She laughed again and patted his hand. He let her go and watched her walk away, dragging the huge sword behind her. She reminded him so much of Niralla. Gods, but it had been too long since he had seen her face.

  At the edge of his vision the archers on the wall scrambled to their feet and grabbed for their weapons. He stood quickly and ran to the wall. There, at the edge of the treeline, tall silhouettes were forming ranks. This was the main wave. These were the world-breakers, the armoured demons that had destroyed Kressel. That familiar horn wailed its mournful call and he turned to shout his orders but then he heard another noise and it sent a chill down his spine. It was a harsh shriek that he had only heard a few times before and even as he spun around he knew what he would see. From the trees came Antler Helm, riding that huge, feathered lizard. As Beccorban watched, the monstrous knight raised one long-fingered hand and pointed it forward.

  The Helhammer could not help but feel that it was pointing directly at him.

  XXXI

  Riella heard the inhuman cry behind her and quickened her pace. She leapt down the stairs into the chamber below the broken tower, splashing through the stagnant pools there without caring. She slipped on the mud and smashed into the rough stone wall, cursing as she grazed the thin skin of her ankle. She pulled herself back to her feet and limped down the leftmost tunnel, using the wall as a support. Finally she came to the iron gate of Callistan’s prison and stopped.

  It was open.

  “Hello?” she said warily. There were no guardsmen present and everything was too quiet, so quiet that she could hear the muted voices and clashing of metal from outside. Slowly, she eased open the rusted iron gate and crept down the long corridor that led to Callistan’s cell. Ev
en before she stepped inside she knew something was wrong. There was a pair of manacles lying on the floor, and no sign of the iron spike that had held them. Callistan had broken free, but how?

  She turned and ran back down the tunnel, favouring her bruised leg. She sped through the entrance chamber once more and continued into the opposite tunnel. It was black here, since all of the torches along the corridor had been snuffed out and the only light came from the cell at the end where Illis’ slipskin was being held.

  Riella saw movement ahead and slowed down. Could the Echoes have made it this far? No, that was impossible. There was no way they could have passed Beccorban and the soldiers outside. Her foot touched something hard and she cursed softly, clapping her hand over her mouth.

  “Is someone there?” Droswain called out and she relaxed. She might not have any affection for the odious priest but at least it meant she was safe.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  “Ah, Riella. Be careful as you come in. Your friend has left you some obstacles.”

  She stooped down to touch the object that lay in her path and flinched as she touched cold metal. Armour. She ran her hands along until she found a fleshy neck, still warm. She had found the guards, then. “Are they dead?” she asked, her stomach sinking at the thought of Callistan killing innocent conscripts.