Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  Eventually the woman had grown bored of the small mountain town, and made her way back up the hill to the Great Hall, striding with purpose. For a terrible moment, Loster imagined that she wanted to go back and confront Malix. The Lord of Elk had shamed her and no doubt scared her, but Loster knew firsthand that it was madness to go after a wolf in its own lair.

  Wolf. He laughed. He had never thought of his father as a wolf before. Weasel, maybe. Snake. Rat. Anything poisonous and spiteful.

  However, after a moment staring down the guards by the great double doors, the woman had set off again, this time aiming for the woods that the Hall back on to. Loster counted in his head, making sure he left enough time so as not to draw too much attention, then scurried after her.

  The woods were in their full autumnal regalia: hues of brown and red and gold that should have been a cause of delight. To Loster they were warning colours telling him to stay away from the horror that lurked in the mountain. After Barde’s demise, Lord Malix had forbidden any mention of the hidden Temple Deep. Once, a year ago, a young priest had come sniffing around. He had offered money to scout the Widowpeak, but Malix had refused to meet him and moved him on quickly. For days the Lord of Elk had raged about spies in his hall. Several guardsmen had been made examples of, humiliated in the stocks for minor infringements painted as acts of espionage, and in one particularly grisly case, killed.

  Whatever arrangement this woman and her people had with his father, Loster knew he would never be made privy to it. If he was caught scouting these woods he would be punished, and it would be so much worse than the last time. A wall came down inside his mind and he focused on the task ahead of him. Concentrate, he told himself. Don’t get caught and there will be nothing to worry about.

  There were very few paths in the woods, since there were not many places they could lead, except up to the roots of the mountain. Even those that did exist were little more than deer tracks, broken lines of beaten earth that followed no particular pattern and looped around in all directions.

  Yet Loster knew where the woman was headed.

  He felt his stomach fizz with fear and his arms began to shake. Do this, Loster, he told himself. Go and see it. Be free of it. Loster had not returned to the forest entrance of the hidden Temple Deep since he had come stumbling out of it years before, an only child covered in blood. Part of him had wanted to return, but his fear always won the day, keeping him in the little wooden building, poring over numbers and manuscripts written in fluid Old Verian. Now he had an excuse, and if he was being honest with himself, a guide. He would have struggled to find the hole in the mountain again, but now this strange woman was going to lead him there. Back into the darkness.

  The woods grew thicker as he followed the woman, though she did not slow her pace. She was walking without looking, head down, and Loster would not have been surprised had she been blindfolded. Their route took them down into a dense bowl full of tangled undergrowth and then out again, making use of a concealed track that skirted the worst obstacles. Loster made sure to stay low and place his feet carefully, avoiding any loose twigs or dry leaves. He noticed that the woman he followed took no such care with her footsteps. Instead she seemed to follow an instinctual path, her feet guiding her soundlessly through the forest.

  Suddenly there was the clunk of metal on wood, and both Loster and his target dropped to a crouch.

  “Don’t do that, Wuun, you’ll blunt it,” came a voice from beyond the woman.

  “It’s blunt already. Hasn’t been sharpened in weeks.” The man said it with a strange pride, as though he had achieved something.

  Two guardsmen materialised on the path some distance ahead. Wuun was not a name Loster recognised, but he knew the other, Ulf, as a long-serving member of Malix’s guard. Ulf had a gambling problem and could often be found in the house opposite Aifayne’s schooling room. Loster leaned forward on his hands to see if he could make out the woman. She had disappeared. He cursed softly.

  “Don’t let Jaym find out, or you’ll be scrubbing armour for the next month.”

  The man called Wuun grunted in response, and their footsteps grew quieter. Loster carefully raised his head above the obscuring brush. The two men had taken a different deer track and passed alongside his. Turning his head slowly, he scanned the trees around him for a glimpse of the robed woman. Nothing.

  The sun was high in the sky and it blazed down like a great eye, searching the forest floor with beams of revealing light. A bird warbled happily in the trees and Loster frowned. Back in his bed chamber in the living quarters of the Great Hall, he often used to lie awake; he had never been an easy sleeper, and often fought it off for fear of being caught unawares. Lord Malix did not visit as regularly as he had before — after all, Loster was getting older — but when he did it was unannounced. Oddly Loster found that he did not need much sleep, and most mornings he was up with the songbirds, listening to their merry cries and the greetings they piped at the dawn. As a result, the young heir apparent knew the voice of almost every winged creature in Elk, and the bird singing its song at the moment was not one he recognised.

  He listened, waiting. It came again, as he knew it would: a musical burble. He smiled. It was a good imitation, but not one from a songbird. The call continued, and Loster began to creep towards the sound. The robed woman had a helper, and he was calling her home. Loster followed the noise for almost an hour, pausing whenever he was unsure and picking it up soon enough if he lost the sound. Eventually it grew louder, and he realised he was moving towards a fixed spot. Whoever was mimicking the bird had stopped and was waiting for somebody to find them.

  As quietly as he could, Loster pushed through a dense knot of brambles and froze. Ahead of him was a clearing of long brown grass, and beyond that a door hacked into the side of the mountain by unknown hands. Time had been kind to the stone and the doorway still bore its sharp edges, though vines and creepers from the forest floor had begun to crawl up it in a vain attempt to close off the passageway into the Widowpeak. Above the lintel of the door was a faded painting: a huge pair of blazing red eyes, thin and slitted like a goat’s. He was here, back at the forest entrance to the Temple Deep for the first time since Barde had died.

  Loster tried to swallow and gasped with panic as his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. It stuck like tar and he fell backwards, clawing at his mouth as his lungs screamed for breath. A rustling in the bushes to his left made him freeze, and still he struggled to breath past his swollen tongue. A jagged splinter of pain lanced into his head. His vision was closing in and he knew that he was in danger of falling unconscious. Since he had lost Barde, anything that made him feel uncomfortable or threatened had manifested itself as a headache. Too often it grew until it became deafening, and then his mind simply gave in and he fell into oblivion. It was a defence mechanism that had replaced the challenging voice which led him to the door in the side of the Widowpeak in the first place. For that he was glad — after all, the voice had made him an only child — but he could not afford to faint now. If he passed out he would die.

  Loster lay back so that his head was on the ground, and forced himself to be calm. He reached up and dug his fingers into his mouth. He tasted dirt and the peaty earth and then his tongue was free and he closed his lips around his fingers and sucked up what moisture he could. The edges of his vision began to clear and he blinked rapidly to speed the process. The bird that was not a bird called once more, and Loster slowly pulled his feet up so that he was in a ball, as concealed as he could be in the long grass of the clearing.

  The robed woman stepped out from the trees to his left and walked smartly to the secret entrance. She paused as she reached the doorway and quickly glanced over her shoulder before disappearing into the shadow. Loster propped himself up on his elbows and covered his hand with his mouth as he coughed. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, said a voice in his head and he felt bile sting the back of his throat. He tried to look once again at the door to
the Temple Deep but his hands shook with fear and he suddenly felt very weak. A phantom clanging echoed in his head and his nostrils tingled at the imagined scent of old and new blood alike.

  Abruptly a great feeling of elation and relief swept over him, because deep in his subconscious the decision was made that he wouldn’t be revisiting the Widowpeak after all. This would be the end of his adventure, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Loster picked himself up and brushed down his clothes. The others are right, he told himself. You are a coward. He spat and turned back into the forest. His feet dragged as he went, as though his body were at odds with his mind.

  Behind him, a pair of red eyes looked on dispassionately.

  They were not the only eyes that watched him go.

  The air seemed to grow fresher as Loster got closer to Elk. He couldn’t remember how long it had taken him to reach the door in the Widowpeak but it was still bright, and if he was careful, he did not think anybody would notice his absence. Maybe he could sneak back into the kitchens and finally grab something to eat. He felt famished after his journey, and if Malix was entertaining tonight as Cook had said, then there should be something ready by now. He came to a fallen tree. It was a giant, probably hundreds of years old, yet weather had torn it down as though it were little more than a reed. He didn’t remember seeing this on his way out, but then it was no surprise that he had followed a slightly different path back. He knew he was going in the right direction. He was going downhill.

  Loster crouched and ducked under the huge tree, scuffing the back of his neck on the rough bark as he came up again. He swore and reach up to rub at the sore spot—

  —and flinched as a stone clacked off of the tree above his head, leaving a bright scar in the bark.

  “So close! If the little prig hadn’t moved I woulda got ‘im good!” Barik stepped from the trees with two other boys in tow. One was Erdun, the son of one of Malix’s guardsmen, but the other he had never seen before. “Where you been off to, Lost?”

  “Don’t call me that,” said Loster quietly.

  “I can’t hear you, Lost. Speak up.” Barik cupped a hand to his ear in a mocking salute and the two other boys giggled.

  “Lost has lost ‘is voice,” the unknown one crowed.

  “Gone right and lost it with his brother,” said Erdun viciously.

  “Aye, thinks he’s better than us. That’s what it is,” snarled Barik. “Doesn’t speak to the common folk. Just like his father.”

  Loster could feel an ache beginning at the back of his neck. If Barde was here they would never had dared to speak to him so. Nobody would. If Barde was here, they wouldn’t have reason to. They wouldn’t know how much of a coward you are. He clenched his teeth as the thought ran through his mind. His jaw began to shake with the effort and he forced his mouth open.

  “Trying to say something, Lost?” sneered Barik.

  “Leave me alone,” he answered feebly.

  “He’s gonna run an’ tell his papa,” warned the one without a name.

  “No he won’t, Prentin.” Erdun opened his eyes wide in an attempt to look intimidating. With his shock of fuzzy ginger hair, it made him look comical, but Loster knew this was not the time to mention it. “Ain’t that so, Lost?”

  “Just let me past,” said Loster, trying to keep his eyes on all three of them at once.

  Barik was walking towards him slowly with his side facing forwards, as though he were hiding something. Erdun was circling out to the left to cut off any escape, but Prentin, the one he had never seen before, stayed rooted to the spot. With theatrical slowness, Barik revealed what he had been hiding: a stout wooden practice blade from Jaym’s yard.

  “Barik, I don’t think we should,” Prentin said nervously.

  “Shut up, Prent, you’re such a baby.” Erdun licked his lips and his eyes glinted as he too revealed a sparring blade. It was a shorter one used for blocking, but it was no less thick.

  Loster looked for a gap that he could dart through but there was none where their weapons could not reach him. He twisted around, searching the ground for anything to defend himself, but there was only the tree, trapping him in so he could share its misery. He raised his eyebrows and tried to look shocked. “If Jaym finds you’ve taken those, he’ll give you both an awful beating.”

  Barik smiled coldly. “Funny, that’s what we’re going to do to you.” Before he finished his sentence, he whipped the wooden sword up so that it cracked against Loster’s chin with a smack. Loster’s teeth jarred together and he tasted blood in his mouth as he caught the edge of his tongue. He yelped with pain and fell to his knees, raising his arms to protect himself, but Erdun had already made it behind him, and the boy’s blade came slamming down on the back of Loster’s head. He fell forward and tasted soil, but he didn’t mind for the grass was as soft as a pillow, and somebody had laid a warm blanket over him. It shielded him from the angry blows of the boys so that they felt no stronger than a buffeting wind. He sighed and realised that his headache was gone.

  His vision began to close in, and the darkness took him.

  When he woke he was alone. He opened his eyes to see that he was in a stone chamber, lying on his back on the cold ground. The room was a dim blue and the only light came from a hole somewhere high above that permitted a golden column to shine down. He sat up awkwardly and winced as the bruised muscles of his stomach creaked with protest. Somewhere deep inside him, bone clicked against bone. He felt his chest where there was a large swelling below his breastbone. I must have cracked a rib, he thought absently. Oddly, there was no pain. He stood slowly, but it was still too fast and the world swam around him. He took a deep breath to steady himself then blinked a few times and looked up.

  The room was empty except for a low altar of black stone that dished in the middle. It was perfectly centred, and the column of light lanced right into the middle where there was a yawning black hole as wide around as his waist. Loster took a step forward and his knee buckled. He fell to the floor in a heap and groggily rolled to a sitting position. He probed carefully around the knee, hissing with anticipated pain and then realising that, though it was heavily swollen, he felt fine. Gingerly he stood again, though he made sure to put his weight on his good leg. Moving with an awkward shuffle, he edged towards the altar.

  “Hi, Los,” said a familiar voice and Loster froze in his tracks. He spun on his good foot and almost fell but flung his arms out to stay upright. Behind him stood Barde as he remembered him: tall, blond, good-looking, with a kind face that promised wisdom and generosity as he grew older.

  “Barde,” he whispered to himself. “You can’t be here. You’re dead.”

  “That’s why I’m here!” his brother laughed. Gods, it felt good to hear that laugh again. It made him feel safe. “Did they hurt you, little brother?”

  Loster blinked and then looked down at himself. “Uh, yes. At least I thought they did but I’m fine now.” He shook his head to clear it of the fuzziness clouding his vision. They must have hit me harder than I thought. “This can’t be. You’re not really here.”

  “But that’s exactly where I am, Los. Here with you. Can’t you see?”

  “Yes, I see but…” Loster closed his eyes and counted to three and then opened them again but Barde was still there, eyebrows raised, looking confused.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What’s happening? I don’t understand.” Loster breathed in. It was a ragged breath that only seemed to fill half a lung, though he sucked in a lungful.

  “I’m not sure either, Los, but I need you to do something for me.” Barde smiled and took a step forward.

  “Yes, what? Anything.”

  Barde pointed to the altar. “You need to look in there.” Loster looked over his shoulder. “Go on. Go and take a look.”

  Loster frowned but did as he was bid. He turned and shuffled over to the altar of black stone, resting his hands on the rim. It was very large, as big as a garden pond, and t
he bowl was very deep. “I don’t see anything, Barde.” He turned to look at his brother but he was alone again. His heart sank and he felt suddenly short of breath.

  A gurgling sound made him turn and he twisted back to the altar as a thick black liquid began to bubble out of the hole in the centre. The iron tang of blood reached his nostrils and he made to step backwards but his hands were stuck to the stone. “Barde, help!” he cried, but there was no response. He gave a great tug and fell backwards, landing heavily on his buttocks. Lifting his hands to his face, he saw that they were covered in thick, tacky blood. He screamed.

  “Los!” Barde called. “Loster!”

  He twisted around and screamed again. Barde was crawling towards him on the floor, one arm dragging him forward over the rough stone. His fingernails scratched at the ground and one of them folded with a ripping sound and was left behind on the floor. His head was a ruin: it had been crushed downwards so that it resembled a great V. His body was split in two, held together by his pelvic bone, which scraped and scratched at the floor as he dragged himself along. “Don’t be such a baby, Los,” said Barde from his torn mouth. One of his eyes had been smashed into jelly but the other hung on a stalk of muscle and now it turned to look at him.

  Loster cried out and felt the warm rush as the blood spilled over the lips of the altar like a storm-driven sea to crash around him. It splashed up his body into his eyes where it burned, and washed into his mouth where it festered, salty and warm. He screamed louder until he was submerged under a wave and he choked as bitter blood filled his lungs.

  “Los!” came the voice distantly. “Los!”

  He struggled and kicked and his lungs began to spasm, and suddenly all of his pain came back in a rush. “Loster! Listen to my voice, Los!” He could feel his swollen knee now, and the cracked rib, and the puffy bruising around his eyes, and the apple-sized lump on the back of his head, and still he drank in blood that was not his own.