by Tom Stacey
He swallowed heavily. A noble rebel? He would be made an example of. Hanged, or burned like his mother, or quartered and pinned to the walls of the capital as a warning to others.
Or all three.
There really was no choice. He had to go back, find others like him, rally support. Retreat and regroup.
The sound of laughter carried to him, soldiers telling tall tales and sharing in that unique understanding of what it means to be alive after staring down Death. It was time to move. He hauled himself to a standing position, resting his weight on his good foot and finding his balance.
A branch snapped somewhere off to his right.
He froze and listened, straining his senses. He had been foolish. Any camp would have a picket line. At some point he must have crossed it, and that meant that now he was trapped inside a web of sentries.
The Soldier reached behind him to draw his sword, momentarily forgetting his weakness and shifting his weight to his damaged leg. He fell with a thud, dropping the sword in the undergrowth. He scrabbled around in the darkness, oblivious to the pain in his hand and the scratches and cut of thorns and nettles. After what seemed an age, his right hand wrapped around the hilt—
—as a sharp edge of metal pricked the back of his neck.
“Not much of an army are you?” mocked a gruff voice. “Just you out here, is it?"
The Soldier breathed deeply and threw himself to the side, twisting and swinging the blade double-handed with all the weight of his body behind him. He had owned a sword once that could have cut through stone. He had named it something suitably grand, yet now, like so many other things, he could not remember what it had been. If he had been holding that sword then he would have cut through both the legs of his attacker and still had enough momentum to decapitate another. This sword was not like the other. Nevertheless it hit the sentry just below his knee with enough force to break his leg with an audible crack, before glancing off the dented plate and flying from its wielder’s hands into the shadows. The sentry screamed and fell, tumbling down the shallow rise.
The Soldier rolled on to his belly and squatted, gasping with pain yet ready to spring into action. A man flung himself from the darkness of the forest and tackled him. They both fell, limbs flailing, to land a few feet from the first sentry, who was clutching his shattered leg and howling with agony. Three more sentries ran down the incline and surrounded the two struggling men. The Soldier struggled under the weight of the brute atop him yet managed to bring his knee up into the man’s groin. The man hissed in pain and rolled away, giving the Soldier the chance to stand and face his enemy.
By now, more men were running from the campfires, come to see what all the noise was about. The Soldier knew it was over. His mind was a fog of exhaustion and torment and he tottered on his feet, yet he still stood. That is all you can do, he told himself. Stand. Don’t let the bastards see you fall.
A fist caught him in the back of his head and forced him to his knees. He put his hands out to steady himself and screamed as the stump of his finger dug into the soil. He fought back a sob and looked up as he heard the sound of galloping hooves.
A knight. A leader. Somebody to make a decision. It would soon be over. He would feed the crows after all. His world began to spin and he felt as if the ground was coming up to meet him.
“Out of the way! Stand back!” a muted voice called, a voice given to command. “Back! Back I say! What’s going on here?”
The Soldier could taste the dew on his lips and it tasted as sweet as nectar. The pain in his body began to fade.
“Well? What is going on? Who is this man?” A gasp. “Callistan?”
Callistan, thought the Soldier. That sounds familiar. And for the third time in one day, darkness took him.
It felt like going home.
“Careful. Be careful with him.” Strong hands lifted him gently and laid him on something soft and downy. He breathed in the scent of fresh flowers, and for a brief moment he imagined that he was in a familiar room, in a familiar setting, surrounded by familiar people. However the stab of pain in his leg soon brought him round with a start.
“He’s awake! He’s awake! Stand back, stand back!” As his eyes focused in the dim firelight, the Soldier recognised one blurry silhouette more than the rest: an elderly, needle-thin man crouching uncomfortably close. A cool, dry hand gripped his arm. “Lord Callistan, we thought you had fallen. We searched for your body but it was as if you had disappeared, but now you are back, you’re back and the men will be so glad, so very glad. They’ve missed you terribly. Terribly!” he emphasised this last by raising his eyebrows and smiling paternally.
Callistan cleared his throat and immediately succumbed to a hacking cough. A man whom he did not know held a bowl of steaming water scented with something leafy and fresh under his nose for him to spit into.
He sat back upright and grimaced as nausea fought for control. Breathing deeply and slowly he spoke to the thin man in front of him. “You… you know me?”
The thin man frowned. “Why, yes of course, my Lord.”
Lord. “I don’t remember.” Callistan paused as his head began to throb. “Where am I?”
“In your tent, my Lord. It is the year 1259 of the Common Watch—”
“Yes, yes, thank you. I know what year it is, though that may sound odd.”
“Apologies, my Lord, apologies.”
“You said my tent?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Why did you attack me. Those men…”
“The sentries? Forgive me, my Lord, but you attacked them. They could not recognise you. Your face… it was very dark, and well…” the thin man swallowed. “You were not yourself.”
“Myself…” Callistan rolled the word around his mouth thoughtfully. “The others, from the battle. Who were they?”
“One can only assume you mean the hated rebels, my Lord, and I trust you remember — forgive me — I trust that you are aware that they have been defeated. Defeated and scattered to the four winds. Scattered like chaff. You, yourself, were instrumental in that defeat, my Lord.” He paused for effect and Callistan noted that several of the men standing by his bedside were nodding and looking upon him with admiration.
Callistan grimaced as he remembered the field of the dead. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me, if I was so successful, why can’t I remember anything?”
“Well, you were unhorsed, my Lord. You were unhorsed and you fell,” the thin man offered helpfully.
“I fought on a horse?”
“The Dalukar always fight from horseback, my Lord. You have never been defeated,” the thin man said proudly, as if he were personally responsible.
Dalukar. The name meant something to him but he could not quite place it. The smell of horse and sweat and leather came unbidden to his mind, and his inner eye teased him with a wisp of memory: charging at the gallop into a broken enemy; the thunder of hooves on soil; the reassuring weight of plate and mail and the promise of blood in the frosty morning air. “And… I am a lord?” he asked.
The thin man looked at him for a moment before answering. “What do you remember?”
Callistan grunted. “I remember flashes. Perhaps it will come back to me.”
“I truly hope so. For now I will remind you. You are Callistan Imbros, Lord of Blackwatch, Herald of the Greatseat, Imperial Marshall and Grand Domestic of the Dalukar.” Callistan would not have thought himself hallucinating if a fanfare of trumpets had accompanied the thin man’s proclamation. The ensuing silence was uncomfortable and he struggled for the words to break it.
“You will forgive me, but I do not know your name, nor those of any of you.” He gestured at the five or so rough-looking soldiers.
The thin man smiled. “Of course, my Lord. How foolish of me. I am Hapal, your steward.” He pointed to the men arrayed around him. “This is Bren, Miro, Fuste, Gorbilak and Crayne. They are members of the Dalukar. They were the ones who found you. Oh, and Arnolf.”
“The man with the broken leg, my Lord.”
Callistan grimaced. “Is it bad?”
“The surgeons assure me it is a clean break, a clean break. He will be back in action before long. As will you.”
Callistan looked up. “The war will be over soon, surely?”
“Forgive me, my Lord, forgive me, but the war is already won. This was the last force the Sons could muster against us,” said Hapal. “And they have been crushed. Utterly crushed.”
“Sons?”
“The Sons of Iss, my Lord. The ones who started the rebellion.” Callistan looked at him enquiringly. “They have always been trouble-makers, my Lord. Most are Respini who have never adjusted to life under the rightful rule of the Empron.” He shook his head. “It does not matter now. Their kind are hunted. But this all can wait. You need rest. Rest. Lots of it.” Callistan leaned back and groaned as the stitches in his thigh pulled at the tortured flesh. “Try not to stand, my Lord. The surgeon has told me you will never heal without proper rest.” Hapal bowed respectfully, ushered the other men from the tent, and then followed.
Callistan laid back and stared at the canvas roof above him. He could not remember a single one of these men. Surely he should have known the faces of those under his command? Domestic of the Dalukar. It sounded important enough.
Who had he been a matter of hours before? It occurred to him how odd it was that he had not been rescued from the battlefield. If he was an officer and men of his unit had survived, why had they not protected his body? He had been left to rot in the westering sun, mutilated by looters and pecked at by carrion. Had he been such a terrible leader that his men had abandoned him, glad to see him fall amongst foes? Callistan frowned. His whole body ached and screamed at him for sleep yet he could not bring himself to close his eyes just yet. A dark feeling of unease had coiled like a snake in his belly and sat there dripping venom into his gut. Something was terribly wrong.
A horse whinnied outside and there was a commotion of voices. Someone shouted angrily and there was a gasp, then silence. Heavy footsteps slapped in the mud and suddenly the cloth entrance to the tent was thrown open. A tall, lightly muscled man with a lean, angular face stooped in the doorway. His hair was dirty blonde and shoulder length and his eyes were a piercing green — bright and intimidating. As he stepped inside and stood to his full height, Callistan could see that he was dressed in a fine tunic of deep blue, trimmed in red. A nobleman, then.
“As I said, a spy among us! An agent of the enemy!” His voice was oddly familiar, deep and lightly gravelled. Hapal pushed through the opening behind him, followed by several heavily armed men with grim faces and hungry expressions. The noble pointed at Callistan. “Seize him at once.”
Confused, Callistan tried to stand and fell against the bed. Rough hands gripped him under the arms and hauled him to his feet where he was greeted by a punch in the belly that bent him double, and then a knee in the face that brought him back upright. He spat blood on to the floor and looked up at the noble with rage in his eyes.
“My, my Lord! I don’t understand!” Hapal protested, wringing his hands, his eyes flitting between captive and captor. “How can he be a spy? The war is won. Who is left to spy? I don’t understand.”
“Look at him, man. Is it not obvious? This is the enemy we have been warned of! The unseen enemy. This is the true danger to the Empire.” He looked at one of the men holding Callistan. “Take him to the command tent and bind him in irons. We will take this… thing back to Temple and show him to the Council. Then they will know what shadows we loyal men have to face.” He flicked his hand and the men dragged Callistan out into the cool night.
As he passed Hapal, the older man reached out as if to stop him, but must have thought better of it for he lowered his hand. “My Lord Callistan,” he called and Callistan shifted awkwardly in the grip of his captors to answer him, only to see that it was not him who was being addressed, but rather the tall noble. And then he realised why the noble's voice had been so familiar.
It was the same voice as his own.
III
In the town of Elk, in the shadow of the mountain people called the Widowpeak, a young man ambled. He was of a slim build, with narrow, feminine shoulders and long limbs that seemed to have altogether too many joints. He was neither tall, nor short, but rather of a middling height that drew little attention. His face was still soft and rounded with youthful puppy fat, but framed with high, fragile-looking cheekbones and full pink lips, frozen perpetually into the threat of a frown. He had eyes of deepest brown laced with veins of orange gold, and could be considered handsome in a vulnerable sort of way, though his features were marred by a small pockmark under one eye. His hair was jet black and cropped like a soldier’s, except this young man was not a soldier. He was, instead, wholly unremarkable, in a manner that only the young can be, their faces not yet lined with the unique character etched by worry, hardship and experience. However, had somebody taken the time to look, they would have noticed the beginning of such truths. It was in the way he wore his face: subtle tics and spidery creases in the flesh that spoke of suffering untold and lived with. Some might even say he had an old face, and they would be right, for though he was not yet fully grown, he had seen things few would ever have the strength to comprehend. He was Loster, the second son of Lord Gaston Malix, and he had watched his brother die.
Every day, Loster had lessons at the little wooden building in the town proper. It was unusual for a noble to be schooled outside the grounds of his father’s hall but Loster had insisted. He had his reasons. Ever since the death of his brother, Barde, some years before, the Lady Helin had been impossible to be around. She had convinced his Lord father to forbid him from swordplay, so while the other boys practiced with the family weapons master, Jaym, he lifted nothing heavier or more dangerous than a quill. It was a source of shame for him to watch those who he must one day lead learn skills he could not. Already several of the boys had begun to mock him. They were a scant few months into their training yet they hounded him with jeers and catcalls whenever he passed by, as he must, every day, on his way from the little wooden building where he learned history and numbers and respect for the gods, on towards the Great Hall of his father.
The Great Hall of Elk was on a hill that overlooked the town below. Elk itself was not large, merely a simple collection of low wooden buildings and some grander stone constructions that housed in turn a tavern, a modest Temple Dawn, and a muster hall for the militia. The town sat in the shade of the Widowpeak, the highest point in all of Daegermund, and thus had been robbed of every glorious dawn since the first foundation stone was laid at the foot of the mountain. Loster dragged his feet as he climbed the winding path to the Great Hall. He always did when he came near the Lord of Elk.
Gaston Malix’s hall was a large, high-ceilinged building of wood and stone. He met his petitioners in the main hall, and when he was fatigued or simply bored, he retired to the living quarters: an ugly square monstrosity grafted on to the side of the hall. The living quarters had a discreet entrance, usually reserved for servants, but it was there that Loster went, avoiding the surly glances from the two guardsmen that stood on either side of the great wooden doors of the main building and stepping into the heat and bustle of the kitchens.
“That door there, close it!” came a thick, matronly voice. “Oh, little Lord Loster, I didn’t know it were you. Kindly shut the door behind you.” The voice took on mocking politeness, and a large, round woman stepped out of the steam and smoke, and grinned a black-toothed grin so cold it should have melted. “Finished our book lessons ‘ave we, milord?” Cook’s son, Barik, was already a keen student of Jaym’s and she could not help but gloat.
“Yes, done for today, thank you, Cook.” Cook probably had a real name, but nobody had ever troubled to learn it. “Is there a cold plate I could take to my room?”
“Nothing, little Lord. Yer father’s entertainin’ tonight, so we
’re all busy in ‘ere. Besides, the Lady Helin was askin’ after you. Wouldn’t do to keep ‘er waitin’ til you’ve eaten.” The fat woman’s tone bordered on insolence, but they both knew he would not say anything.
Loster sighed. “Yes, well I’ll go and see her, then.” He eased around Cook’s bulk — she made no effort to move — and tried not to breath in the stink of her, nor touch the greasy, stained apron she wore. He made for the door that led to the stairs and called over his shoulder, “If anybody finds the time, just some cheese will do.”
Cook spread her hands. “If there’s time, milord, if there’s time.”
Loster stepped out of the steam of the kitchen and tentatively smelt his clothes. He had only been in there for a moment, yet they stank of smoke and roasting meat and fish, and he knew his mother would scold him. She could never understand why he wouldn’t enter through the Great Hall, but Loster would not run the gauntlet of his father’s attention if he did not have to. The Lady Helin was adept at being oblivious to problems around her, especially when it came to her husband.
Loster sprang up the wooden steps, keen to get things over with and then retreat to his room. The staircase was narrow and the steps were made of stone, not yet old enough to be worn smooth. Each step clopped loudly in the narrow stairwell. He turned the corner and came face to face with a tall man with gaunt face, and long, pale hair like straw.
“Lord Loster. What a pleasant surprise.” The man’s voice came from high up in his nose.
“Good day, Korin,” Loster nodded in greeting. “I’m going to see mother. She asked for me.” Loster did not know why he was explaining himself to a steward.
Korin sniffed. “Unfortunately the gallery is closed, young master. The Lady Helin is sleeping. I would strongly recommend that you go back downstairs.”
