Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  “I must admit, my Lord,” he said, toying nervously with a weed he had plucked from the floor, “I did briefly think that you were one of those creatures. Briefly.”

  Callistan looked up at the older man and considered before he spoke. “One of?” he asked. “There are more?”

  “Oh, most certainly, my Lord, most certainly.” Hapal threw a thumb over his shoulder at one of the men guarding the door. “Virne thinks he saw one in Kressel a few months ago, the double of a man he had once known."

  “How did he know it wasn’t the same man?”

  “Because he killed the man. A messy thing, my Lord, a messy thing. A tavern brawl or some such.” Callistan grimaced. “For all we know there are slipskins in every city in Veria. And beyond.”

  “Slipskins?”

  “An old term, my Lord, but a relevant one.” Hapal leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We believe that to wear a man’s skin, they have to first cut—”

  Callistan held up a hand to forestall the thin steward and shook his head. “Forgive me, Hapal, but I am aware of the process involved. I have seen the evidence firsthand.”

  “Truly?” said a shrill voice at the back of the courtyard. A skinny boy of no more than fifteen summers came tripping and stumbling towards the two men. “My Lord, you must tell me everything you know. Master Droswain—”

  “Quiet, Runt,” said Hapal. “You quite forget yourself.”

  Callistan smiled. “It’s okay, Hapal.” He gestured for the boy to sit down. Runt sat where he stood, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap like a child listening to a story. He looked like he needed a good meal but the robe filled him out some; the billowing black folds made him look comical. “Tell me, who is Master Droswain?”

  “Nobody of importance, my Lord,” said Hapal. “He was a priest of the Temple Dawn who started preaching the end of the world, but he is gone now.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Anywhere that isn’t Temple. He was banished, for trying to teach the secrets of the Temple Deep to the uninitiated.”

  “But only because he noticed things that others didn’t,” said Runt with fervour.

  “You would do well to forget all he spoke of, boy,” said Hapal. “He was a sensationalist and an oath breaker. Nothing more.”

  “But what if he’s right?” whined Runt.

  “Enough!” snapped Hapal.

  “Please,” Callistan held up a hand, “what has this Droswain been saying?”

  “Dark things,” Runt continued, pointedly ignoring the molten glare from Hapal. “He said something was coming that would threaten all of Veria and more, that he had seen the signs. Slipskins were one, or rather ‘those that wear the face of their prey.’”

  “More than that, my Lord,” Hapal interrupted. “He broke into a Temple Deep and stole some of their scripture. The Grand Thrall wanted him burned alive. It was only due to his favour with the High Priest that he escaped retribution. He has been exiled, my Lord.”

  Callistan bit his lower lip. “How many of these… slipskins,” he looked at Hapal, who nodded, “are there in the city?”

  Runt puffed out his cheeks and sighed dramatically. “That’s difficult to say. It’s so hard to tell, some of them can be very convincing—”

  “My Lord,” Hapal corrected.

  “My Lord, yes, my Lord,” spluttered Runt, flushing pink. “It doesn’t matter on the type of person. I have reason to believe that they could be anywhere, or anyone."

  “What makes you think that?” said Callistan.

  Runt looked at Hapal as if for permission. “Well, the ease with which they impersonated you.”

  The ensuing silence was thick enough to chew, but Callistan was exhausted enough not to care. “So how did you know that I was the real Callistan?”

  Hapal coughed. “Several things really, my Lord, several things. After you fell in the battle, you didn’t reappear until that night in the tent. It made more sense to me that you had been wounded and got lost rather than abandoned your regiment and vanished from your post.” The elderly steward sighed. “There were other troubling things as well. I have been your personal steward for fourteen years, my Lord. If I do not know you now like my own son, then I am past use. A slipskin can steal a man’s flesh but not his mind and not who he is. Not who he is. If I’m being honest, it was just a feeling. I wasn’t entirely sure until you, uh, he made that quip about the late Lady Imbros. The true Callistan would never have done that. Never.”

  Silence again held sway in the courtyard. A sentry at the door opened it a crack to peer into the empty street.

  Callistan spread his hands. “Do you wish to test me?”

  “No, of course not!” Hapal looked horrified. “Understand, Lord Callistan, that each of us here has completely made up his mind. Completely. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t think you were genuine.”

  “So this is a rescue.”

  “Of a sort, yes. Though we could not have anticipated the trouble in the square. As I said, you can take a man’s flesh but you cannot become him so easily. Your double toyed with the crowd and they responded. They responded, but not as he wanted.”

  “What was going on back there?” asked Callistan. “Those were council members. Illis’ chosen.”

  Hapal nodded his head gravely. “Aye, my Lord. I fear that paranoia has got the best of our Empron. For too long too many have been dripping poison into his ears, and now it seems he has chosen to act on it.”

  “Why does he not do it himself?”

  “The Empron is in Kressel, my Lord, to view the defences there, although many believe that is an excuse.”

  “For what?”

  Hapal shrugged. “Perhaps he does not have the stomach to witness the deaths of men he has trusted all these years. Others say that it is a distraction. Those that pull the Empron’s strings wanted him out of the city so that they could act on his authority without his consent.”

  “Is it the whole council? Are they all being killed?”

  Hapal spread his hands. “Who knows, my Lord. Not all, I’m sure. But in the last few days there have been a dozen killed, and not a few of them were merely related to the accused.”

  Callistan thought of the bloated female corpse swinging in the wind. “And what of me? I’m not a council member.” Hapal looked at him. “Am I?”

  “No, my Lord, but you, or rather the slipskin who has taken on your persona, is proving integral in the purge.” Hapal waved a hand. “This trouble in the square is a setback but no more. He will recover and the killings will continue. I believe he wanted to show you off to the Empron — some sort of twisted proof that there are deceptive elements in the highest echelons of power. A double bluff. The slipskin, or whoever he is working for, wants to remove the shell of loyal men protecting the Empron.”

  “To what end?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The two men fell into a comfortable and reflective silence.

  Callistan leaned forward and gently took the hem of Hapal’s robe in between thumb and forefinger. “Pray tell me, what was your plan? It’s not often that one steals the skin of a temple thrall.”

  Hapal inclined his head. “Very good, my Lord. I see your memory gathers swiftly.” He plucked at the robe. “This was impersonation. Runt’s idea.”

  Runt flushed again. “They’re not true thrall’s robes, my Lord, just dyed sailcloth.” He pulled his robes up to show pale, birdlike legs, patched with grey. “See, the dye runs.”

  Callistan couldn’t help but laugh at the boy's enthusiasm.

  “What happens now?” he said. “That thing out there won’t forget about me, and soon he will hear about the temple thralls who took his prisoner.”

  Hapal nodded. “We know that, my Lord. The unrest earlier was a stroke of luck. We did not expect to have you with us so soon.”

  One of the men near the door came over and crouched to speak in Hapal’s ear.

  “What is it?” asked Callistan,
/>   “Night approaches, my Lord.” Hapal gestured at the tear in the canopy overhead. The light was indeed less bright than it had been and the shadows were lengthening, creeping up the grey brickwork like searching fingers. “It means that we must act soon. If you are still in the city come dawn you will never leave. Never.”

  Callistan twisted his mouth. “They’ll have watchers everywhere.”

  “Perhaps, my Lord, perhaps, but I think they’ll be concentrating on putting down the rioters this night. One chance.” He held up a finger. “Yes, one chance.”

  Then all was hushed activity. Hapal took Callistan to one side where he gave him a large bundle: a dark cloak tied together with a leather belt.

  “Clothes, my Lord, for your journey.” Callistan unhooked the belt and untied the bundle. Inside was everything he would need for the road: a thick, woollen undershirt; a tunic of dark homespun; a pair of black leather gloves; long, form-fitting riding trews patched in leather on the inner thighs and the seat; dark knee-length boots of supple calfskin that would last through hard weather and many miles.

  In the middle of the bundle was a slim knife with a simple wooden handle and a long sword in a plain black scabbard. Callistan drew the first few inches of the cloudy black blade and marvelled at the play of light on the subtle ripples in the steel. Its blade had a thick spine with a wicked cutting edge on one side. It tapered in the middle, swelling again at the tip into a leaf-shaped bulb of razor-sharp metal, designed so that the weight of the tip would carry the edge through flesh and bone. The sword carried the merest hint of a curve that lent it a beauty second only to its qualities of intimidation. It filled Callistan with a strange lust.

  “A falcata, my Lord. A weapon of the Dalukar. Deadly in the hands of a skilled warrior and unmatched from horseback. This is yours. The slipskin seemed to have no need for it. He will not miss it.”

  “Thank you,” said Callistan, “does it have a name?”

  “No, my Lord,” Hapal shook his head. “Forgive me, my Lord, but you always said that naming a sword was crass.”

  “Crass? I said that?”

  “It is a tool, my Lord. No name.”

  Callistan nodded. He sheathed the sword with a snick and strapped the long blade to his back where it could be drawn swiftly. He fastened the knife to his thigh as he would a short sword, and swung the cloak that had held the bundle together over his shoulders, careful to tuck it under the falcata so that it would not impede him.

  A tap on the shoulder made him turn. Runt stood there with a small canvas satchel clutched in his spidery hands. “Some food, my Lord. It’s not much, but it’s all we could find at such short notice.” He loosened the ties holding the satchel closed and angled it so that Callistan could see inside. “Some bread, some salt pork, cheese.” Runt handed him a bloated skin and pulled a face. “Just water, my Lord. We didn’t have any wine.”

  Callistan smiled and made to speak, but Hapal shooed the boy away. “Yes, yes, Runt. Off you go.” He took Callistan gently by the arm and led him away from the others. “Now, my Lord, it is my suggestion that you head southwest, away from Temple and whatever is going on here. If you were to head for the border near Respin, you could—”

  Callistan stopped him with a raised hand. “No, my friend. I have to find my family.”

  Hapal frowned. “They will have thought of that. Most definitely. If they send men towards Blackwatch…”

  “I know. That is why I must go. I fear I have already told the slipskin too much."

  Hapal chewed his lower lip. “You will need a horse but there is little chance of getting near the stables. The Dalukar have seized every mount for miles.”

  “I could walk in and take one. As you say, I am the Grand Domestic.”

  “And risk being caught again? No, my Lord. You will have to flee on foot. Perhaps you will find a horse along the way. It is several days east to Blackwatch and then farther south from there to the country house. Perhaps a day farther.”

  “The country house?”

  “Ah, yes. Blackwatch is on the high plains of the Watch. It’s truly a beauty — as you will no doubt recall when you see it — but it also suffers the full wrath of all the terrible storms from the east. Your family have a low, stone house that they retreat to for much of the year, especially the winter. I would look there first.”

  “Forgive me, but I may need some assistance with the direction.”

  “Of course.” Hapal bowed his head. “I forget sometimes that you don’t remember me.”

  Callistan took the elderly man’s cool hands in his and patted them softly. “And for that I am full of regret, Hapal. You are a true friend.” Hapal smiled and nodded, embarrassed. Callistan noticed another bit of dirt on his hand and began to scrape it off with his nails. “How do I smell?” he asked.

  “You stink, my Lord,” said Hapal, and they both laughed. “Come, we have much to do.”

  Callistan slipped out of the Nording Gate postern just after dusk, passing a silver finn to a sleepy guard to look the other way. Hapal had tried to convince his master to take Crayne and the others with him but it had been to no avail. He said he would travel faster by himself, and there was some truth to that.

  Hapal took a sip of his ale, oblivious to the laughter of the men around him. They had discarded their thralls’ robes, reasoning that the slipskin would be looking for men that fit the description the rumours had given him. Hapal knew, at least, that they would not find Callistan. He was long gone. Off to save his family. Alone. It didn’t mean that Hapal had to like it.

  Seven years as steward to the Lord of Blackwatch. They had been happy years, for the most part, and until this trouble with the rebellion in the Greenlands, peaceful years. What damned fools the rebels had been. Illis had not turned out to be the Empron they thought he would, but war was never going to make him better. The rebellion had only confirmed his paranoia and inspired some of his worst excesses.

  Still, loyalty was right because it was hard. It would be pointless otherwise. Hapal looked at the worn wood of the bench table. It was scratched and scarred and old like him, but it was still here, still useful. Gods be thanked that he was still useful.

  The gods had seen fit to test him but he had made it through. How many other men would have done what he did? How many would have stood by their lord and patron when they learned that their own son would stand against him on the field of battle? Hapal had strapped Callistan’s armour to him on that rainy morning, all those months ago. It had been the first definitive battle of the rebellion and it had been a massacre. Twelve thousand ill-assorted and poorly-equipped young men ridden down beneath the merciless hooves of the Dalukar. Hapal was thankful that they had not found his son’s body. He wouldn’t have been able to look at it. The elderly steward squeezed the bridge of his nose to allay the tears. Foolish boy, playing at soldier.

  Hapal closed his eyes and sighed. Hiplin had ever been a foolish boy, and he would not weep for him. What right did a steward’s son have to be jealous of a noble? What could he have expected for his lot in life? A castle? A harem? A crown? All rebels are romantics, thought Hapal, but none of them are worth a copper dusset.

  Hapal could still remember the look on Callistan's face as he had helped him from his horse. Rain had washed most of the blood away but it still streaked down his armour and fell as pink droplets from his long, blond hair. Callistan had been exhausted but he made a point of addressing his men. Theirs was not a victory, he had said, but a duty, and unpleasant as it had been, it had been for the good of the Empire, for the safety of their families. Callistan took no joy in slaughter. The Lord of Blackwatch had his faults but he was a prince compared to other men of his class. Take Lord Nosteris, for example. The vile man made no secret of his taste for young boys. Indeed it was not uncommon for him to pay random visits to the homes of those in his territory known to have pretty sons. Yes, he paid well, but what price purity? What price a clear conscience? And in their own homes. Hapal shuddered and tri
ed to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

  Nosteris was a man to inspire rebellion. Not Callistan.

  Hapal grinned. At least he had forgotten the damned sword's name. Swords should not have names. The wielder took the life, not the blade. The wielder should bear the consequences and feel the weight of them, not simply carve another notch into their hilt.

  “Drink up, old father. It’s almost time for another round,” Crayne laughed and clapped a meaty hand on to Hapal’s shoulder. All of them had been in a jubilant mood since their success and Hapal saw no reason to bring them back down; all of them except Runt, who sat staring thoughtfully into an ale that he hadn’t touched. He is the smartest of them, thought Hapal. “Come, Runt. You too!” Crayne laughed again. “It’s your turn to pay!” The men roared and spluttered with delight.

  Hapal made eye contact with Runt and smiled, just as the thick wooden door of the tavern burst open. Silence fell on the room like a wet blanket and suddenly the warm glow from the hearth was an unbearable furnace of punishing heat. Hapal turned slowly, ignoring the pale faces of his men. In the door stood the slipskin, still wearing his armour and Callistan's face. He was flanked by several burly guardsmen, weapons drawn. Hapal stood and bowed mockingly.

  “My Lord,” he said, “we had not thought to see you again so soon.”

  The slipskin grinned and it was a smile with as much warmth as a winter’s day in the high mountains. He flicked his gloved hand forward and the men stepped further into the room. The men with Hapal stood and struggled but they were outnumbered and outmatched. Some died where they were, others scrambled backwards over tables and chairs, only to be cut down savagely. Runt died whimpering with a blade in his belly. Only Hapal was left. He had not moved. He stared the false Callistan in the eye and spat his derision. The men closed in around him and the stench of blood and death was replaced by the perfumed malevolence of the slipskin.

  Hapal wrinkled his nose. “You stink,” he said, and smiled. Loyalty was hard.

  And the blades began to fall.