Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  None of them had even had a chance to react. Only Kiren still stood, mouth agape as the Impostor turned slowly to regard him. The young soldier's eyes flicked to Barin, still leaning against the tree. It never ceased to amaze Kiren how one could look without seeing. Until now Barin had merely been resting. Now it was clear that he had been dead for some time, an arrow pinning him to the tree by his throat. The arrow had gone clean through his gorget, evidence of incredible strength and accuracy. He looked back at the Impostor as the figure spoke.

  “I’m sorry, boy. This was not your fight.” Kiren opened his mouth to reply and then coughed. He hadn't meant to cough and so made to speak again, yet something warm and salty bubbled up into his mouth. The ground came up to meet him, catching him like a pillow. He felt warm and comfortable. He coughed again, staining the snow with red liquid. It reminded him of the juice that the local tavern owner had made when he was a child. It had tasted of summer berries and Kiren had loved it. He couldn’t remember why he had stopped drinking it. It had always made his lips pink.

  II

  The first thing he noticed was silence. The black abyss in which he swam was utterly still: no whispering breath of breeze, no gentle hiss of water on rock — a sound he was all too familiar with, even if he could not remember exactly why. A dull thudding in his chest and the constant throbbing of his skull were the only things that let him know he was still alive, unless it was some cruel trick by the Black God. But wait… did they have ravens in Hel? There it was again: the harsh caw of one of the Black God’s winged followers, fallen cousins of the songbird, painted in pitch by the Unnamed to reflect their grim duty.

  His eyes seemed sealed shut, the lids gummed together by something sticky and unyielding, perhaps blood. Soon it did not matter, for a wash of pain hit him. What had been muted warmth in his thigh suddenly became a searing white-hot agony that shot upwards into his side. Now he could feel the cold metal of the gorget around his neck, now he could feel the bite of the buckles and clasps holding his armour to him. The weight of the steel seemed such a hindrance, when surely hours before it had been the difference between life and death. He didn’t even have the strength to wipe the obstructing fluid from his brow.

  Yet the temporary immobility of the Soldier — for he could be nothing else — soon became a blessing. For a new sound broke the silence. Amongst the squabbling birds and the ripping of dead flesh from cold bodies, the shrill mirth of several young children could be heard, accompanied by the lower warning tones of adult women. In any other place, the excited cries of the young would have been a cause for delight. Brief images of a giggling youngster ran through his mind: a chase through the servants’ quarters; a tiny hand engulfed by his own.

  An abrupt crushing pain chased these thoughts from his mind as a heavy figure knelt on his stomach, driving the rim of his breastplate into his upper groin. The stench of fish and piss swept over him.

  As any soldier experienced past his first battle knew, children on a battlefield usually meant one thing: looters. After any large conflict a field would be littered with the dead and the dying for days, perhaps weeks. As the ravens and the dogs gorged themselves on the brave, women and children would slink out from neighbouring settlements to take what they could. It was the way of the world. If they had not fallen, these men would only have been pillaging and raping in the surrounding villages anyway.

  The Soldier went limp, his instinct urging caution over resistance. Any sign of life would likely earn him a slim knife slipped through his eye and into his brain.

  “This ‘un’s sure to be wealthy,” a rasping voice, rattling with phlegm and disease. “Just look at ‘is fine plate!”

  “Can’t we go ‘ome soon, Ma? It’ll be sundown ‘fore long an’ I was ‘opin’ I’d getta see some soldiers ‘fore they all leave.”

  “Psssht, there be plenty of soldiers ‘ere for ganderin’.”

  “Aye, but they’re all rebels!” he spat. “I wanna see proper fighters.” The venom in the boy’s voice was startling. The Soldier fought down panic. Did that make me a rebel? If he could afford expensive armour then he must be important. Was he a rebel leader?

  “Shut yer whinin’ or I’ll take your hide. There’s plenty to see ‘ere an’ we’s got work to do.”

  The Soldier felt cool air on his right hand as his gauntlet was tugged off and tossed aside with a clatter. The left one soon followed.

  “Ahhh! Look at that.” She tugged his left arm across her lap, the coarse fabric of her apron tickling the fine hairs on the back of his hand. “Gimme the blade, boy.” The Soldier clenched his teeth and fought the urge to scream as he realised what was coming. He barely stifled a gasp as cold steel bit into his ring finger.

  "What a luverly gold band,” grunted the fisherwoman as she bent to her task. “That’ll fetch two gold pieces at least.” The blunt edge swiftly parted the meagre flesh above his knuckle and cleaved awkwardly into the bone with an audible squeak. The Soldier swallowed rising bile and nausea with an immense effort of will as his torture continued. The knife was making hardly any impression at all on the thin but tough bone of his finger. Each jerk of the blade seemed as ineffective as the last, sending withering vibrations and bright pain down his arm, now sticky with hot blood.

  Eventually the stinking hag must have grown bored with her work as she simply snapped the finger off at the joint. The dry cracking pop of breaking bone sent the Soldier back into welcoming oblivion. As he slipped into nothingness, he almost felt relief that the howling agony clawing at the back of his teeth could not betray him to such an ignoble end.

  A more discerning observer would have noticed that dead men do not bleed so enthusiastically when cut. The Soldier’s arm was covered in bright red blood and the birds were already circling at the scent of warm gore. However the fisherwoman was far too pleased with her catch to notice such trifling matters. Beginning the long trek back to her cramped hovel, she paused briefly to hold the ring up to the fading light, admiring its deep, claret-glazed sheen before hiking up her filthy skirts and heading towards the dying sun.

  The crows left him alone.

  He woke much later once they were gone, their bellies full of meaty morsels. This time there was no gentle easing into consciousness for him. His world filled with blinding agony as if some demonic blacksmith was pouring molten steel into his eyes. This time, too weak to fight it, his voice betrayed him. He let out a gasp followed by a low moan. Panic dulled the pain as he remembered where he was. After a moment of terror he took a shallow breath. The danger was past. If somebody had heard him they would be here by now.

  He began to breathe more deeply, sucking in oxygen like a man near-drowned. The smell of death clung to his nostrils and coated the back of his throat. Oily, thick, putrescent. The pain in his thigh was beginning to abate. The ghost of his finger throbbed, yet he could tell that the blood flow had weakened to a trickle.

  The Soldier reached to his side with a shaking hand. It took every ounce of effort he possessed but he made it to the clasp on the side of his battered breastplate. With fumbling fingers he loosened it and then pulled the armour free, rolling on to his side and easing the heavy lump of scarred steel off of him with a clang. He paused again, filtering out the scratchy sound of his own breathing to listen for danger. Satisfied, he reached up with his good hand and dug strong fingers into the recesses of his eyes, clawing the thick, tacky fluid away and pulling his eyelids apart with thumb and forefinger. The world before him was dark and he panicked, afraid that he had lost his sight after all. However he soon realised that it was simply night time. He suppressed manic laughter. His eyes were as useless to him as if they had stayed shut.

  The Soldier fumbled around on his knees, wincing with pain as the ragged wound on his left hand touched cold metal, then damp soil, then grave-cold flesh. He had fallen amidst a mound of bodies, his helmet lost somewhere among the pile of broken rag dolls that had once been men. His good hand closed around the warm leather hilt of a swo
rd. He lifted it with a grunt and inspected the metal. From what little he could make out it was a simple straight short sword with a wooden cross guard and a thick blade in good condition. There was no gore on the blade — its owner had died unblooded, then.

  The Soldier planted the point in the ground and used it as a crutch to haul himself unsteadily to his feet. His eyes were still adjusting to the gloom but he could make out the shapes and shades around him. It was a world stained with a grim palette of grey, black, and red, though a red rendered so dark in the light as to be nearly black. The extent of the butchery around him made him shudder. It stretched as far as he could make out, shattered forms of men lying in intimate groups or scattered loosely like individual leaves on an autumn day. Every now and again a spear or planted standard jutted upwards forlornly from the misery below.

  A groan that was not his own caught his attention

  He froze, aware that there had been a noise but unsure of where it had come from. The silence of the night stretched out until it was almost maddening. He stood and waited, straining his ears.

  There. Another groan. He turned his head towards the noise. The sound had been so faint that a stronger breeze would have smothered it entirely. The Soldier began to shuffle towards the groans, favouring his left leg. As he moved he felt heat build in his right thigh, and then wetness as blood began to flow freely again. He cursed but hobbled on, desperate for contact with the living — or as close as he could find.

  The pain in his leg was a steadily burning fire now, licking upwards towards his groin with every laboured step. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself onwards. Blood had begun to pool in the neck of his leather boots, making every step a stomach-turning squelch. He stepped over torn armour and broken helms, outstretched hands and severed limbs, past scorched grass still smoking with the memory of fire, and puddles of water inked with vital fluids. The Soldier clambered painfully over the ruin of a bowman whose unarmoured belly had been split into a wide grin, spilling entrails into the mud. As the Soldier placed his weight upon what he thought was solid footing, he slipped and fell across the archer with a crash, coming face to face with the source of the groans.

  A boy in rough homespun, no older than fourteen summers, lay stricken on the field. An axe was sunk deep into his shoulder, pinning him to the ground. Its owner — a heavily armoured warrior more than twice the boy’s age — still held grimly on to the wooden haft. He had died with a weapon in his hand and a spear in his back. The boy’s face was ghostly pale except for his lips where blood had stained him in a parody of noble beauty. He moaned again in pain, bubbling pink foam from the corner of his mouth.

  The Soldier crawled forwards on his elbows until he was inches from the dying boy’s face. He made to speak and then coughed, spitting blood and dust from his mouth. He had not realised how thirsty he was. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice sounded strong, reassuring. “Brave lad, you fought well.”

  The boy turned his glassy stare towards him. The Soldier reached down and found the boy’s wrist. He gripped his hand as a man would greet an equal and held it before the boy’s eyes.

  This was no warrior. This was a terrified farmhand with a borrowed sword and knitted armour. He had no place here amongst the edges and barbs and men of metal. Another rebel, then, like him. The Soldier had no memory of what they had fought for but they had fought together and that was enough.

  He squeezed the boy’s hand and felt no response. He sighed raggedly and reached for his stolen sword, placing the tip at the boy’s throat. If the farmhand felt the blade, he made no attempt to move away. He simply stared with mournful, glazed eyes that the Soldier knew would haunt him for many nights to come.

  A quick jerk of the blade and it was over. The Soldier hauled himself to his feet again and wiped off the gore with a handful of grass.

  In death the boy looked peaceful — something the axeman atop him had not accomplished. The Soldier weaved slightly on his feet as the blood rushed to his head. He felt nauseous. And hungry.

  There was nothing for him here. He needed food and shelter and to find what remained of his comrades.

  The crow’s feast had started as the battle ended. Soon it would be the turn of the wolves and the wild dogs of the forest, once they were sure that the field held only the shadows of men. Yet when the scavengers came, there would be those among them that preferred their meals warm. He could not be here when they arrived.

  He walked towards the forest.

  The Soldier was bleeding again. The wound in his thigh had begun to weep as he stumbled through the undergrowth but now, after tripping and falling heavily against the jutting limb of a tree, it was pulsing dark fluid. He could feel the heat spreading down his leg so that it seemed his flesh would scald him if he touched it. His stomach was contracting around a lump of ice, sending a deep ache throughout his abdomen in ripples.

  He stopped and stood with his head back, staring up at the heavens, sucking in great lungfuls of air to fight down nausea. Thankfully it was a full moon. The forest was thick and unyielding but in places the silvery moonlight formed pillars that held the leafy canopy aloft. Dust filtered downwards, floating in and out of the columns of light with an ethereal quality. It all seemed so… wrong — another world from the brutality of that muddy field nearby, where men lay like the discarded toys of violent children.

  The Soldier caught his breath and gritted his teeth, steeling himself for another few steps. He aimed at the silhouette of a man — no, a tree — near a pool of light some thirty paces away and forced himself onwards.

  The air did not taste like a forest’s should. It was stagnant and stale as if the wind had not penetrated this deep for centuries. There was a heavy, humid feel and the Soldier could feel himself sweating, although he was not entirely sure whether that was due to the odd temperature or his condition. He wiped cold moisture from his forehead and immediately regretted it as the salt stung where his missing finger should have been. He hissed in pain, for this was not a slow, sapping pain like the wound in his thigh, but rather the sharp bite of an agony that had been pushed to the back of his mind. He thanked all of the gods he could name that his right hand was still whole. Without a full set of fingers he would have struggled to hold a sword again.

  The borrowed blade thumped softly against his back. Since he had no scabbard to speak of, he had fashioned a sling from a torn flag found near the fringes of the battlefield. Aware that stealth was an ally he had slipped the sling over his neck so that the short sword nestled in between his shoulder blades. That way it wouldn’t move about and was less likely to betray him to unfriendly ears. Normally he would have worn it strapped to his thigh, yet he did not trust himself to walk without tripping over the stubborn length of metal.

  An orange glow blurred his horizon. He tried to wipe away the mirage with his good hand but a tingling in his nostrils told him it was no illusion. He fought the urge to breathe in, afraid that the smell of smoke would choke him.

  The memory of his mother’s death snapped into his mind with startling clarity. She had angered his father — he knew not how — and so had been condemned to die, burnt at the stake like a witch. He had fled and eluded his father’s bondsmen for three days before they caught him, feral and near-starved, and dragged him back to watch his mother burn. She had tried not to scream, but without the mercy of a bag of black powder at her throat it had been hopeless. He remembered standing on the platform, gripped firmly by the mailed glove of a guard, while his mother writhed and struggled against her bonds, the flames licking at her feet, a crowd of people who never knew her baying for her blood.

  When her flesh began to blister, she had let out a noise that was wholly inhuman, a keening agony that ended in a liquid warble as her hair ignited and her skin began to melt. He had wept like the child he was, sobbing despite the blows he received from the guardsman tasked with making him watch. He would never forget the smell of that day: a sickly, sweet scent that was too close to roast
ing pork. To his everlasting shame, his mouth had watered as his empty stomach clutched at the promise of cooked meat.

  The Soldier breathed in deeply. This fire was not nearly so macabre. It was only woodsmoke.

  He stumbled on and abruptly came to the end of the treeline. Beneath him, down a shallow rise, stretched a grey field lit here and there by the cooking fires of a victorious army. Crimson tents were pitched in neat rows that reached into the distance. The Soldier scrambled backwards and leaned against a tree, catching his breath and fighting down panic. These were imperials. He could see a few lank banners flapping lazily in the breeze yet he was willing to bet that they bore the device of the Empron: a crowned man leaning on his sword. Somehow he had gotten himself turned around and now he was in the enemy camp.

  The camp was smaller than it should have been. At least a third of the army would still have been hunting down the remnants of the rebel band that had stood so proudly against them hours before. He didn’t know how, but he knew that it was standard procedure: never let a beaten enemy lie.

  He slid down the tree and gasped as rough bark pricked at his thigh. He didn’t think he could just turn around and walk back the way he had come. He would probably get lost again and that was only if his strength didn’t give out first. What would they do to a captured rebel? Enemy prisoners were supposed to be treated well — at least they were if they were noble born. What was it that crone had said? He had been wearing expensive armour. Maybe he was a noble. Maybe he was wealthy.