Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  Riella hesitated and he could see she was torn, but then anger seized her. “You really are a cold bastard aren’t you?”

  He closed his eyes. “I am, but a corpse is colder. Now come with me or cross the Long Bridge and find out for yourself what is making that noise.”

  Riella turned to look at the gatehouse that guarded the Long Bridge, then she went very still. Another noise sounded in the distance and Beccorban spun on his heel. Behind him was a rhythmic clacking, growing louder all the while. Beccorban cursed under his breath. They were trapped.

  “Another column! Now we have to go into the city.”

  “Don’t be a fool. That’s almost half a mile of open walkway, and who knows what’s waiting at the other end.”

  “We can fight them!”

  Beccorban ignored her and looked around the courtyard. Broken wagons, broken weapons. There was nowhere to hide. The part of his back where Kreyiss’ weight touched him began to itch. No, he could not fight them all. The clacking grew louder. “Come,” he snapped and grabbed Riella by the wrist. He ran to the soiled flag and grabbed it by a corner. “Take the other end.” Riella hurried to obey and together they carried the fabric, heavy with muddy water and something darker that could have been blood, over to a wagon. One of the wagons still had a bed that was more or less intact. They threw the sodden material over the top and then clambered inside, pulling each other close and making sure that they were both completely covered.

  Satisfied, Beccorban hooked an edge of the flag on to a corner of the wagon so that he had a triangular porthole from which he could see the courtyard. Riella elbowed her way forward so she could join him. He considered telling her to move back, but she had every right to see what was coming. Beccorban blinked sweat from his eyes and calmed his breathing. He had the absurd feeling of being a child, cowering under his bedclothes.

  And then the clacking stopped.

  “Meat. That’s all we are. Meat and bones and succulent flesh.” The old woman choked out a phlegmy cough and wiped greasy spittle from her mouth. Loster screwed his eyes shut, trying to drown out her voice. “Now her, she can’t be good for much. No fat on her, you see. They’ll like as much use her bones for picking bits of you from between their teeth.”

  “Shut up!” snapped Selene. “None of us want to hear your bellyaching.”

  The old woman grunted as though she was in possession of a wisdom they could not comprehend, but she fell silent nonetheless. Loster was grateful. The scratches on his chest itched and his head had been throbbing for hours and nothing he did would make it abate. It was all too much: the smell of smoke and peaty earth and blood and shit, the whispering grass, the clack-clack of their captors’ armour, the tread of boots and moccasins and bare feet on the ground, and over all the vision of that nightmare face hiding on the inside of his eyelids — a gaze he might never escape.

  They were on yet another muddy path that Loster suspected had not existed a few hours previously. On either side marched several of the freakishly tall creatures that had captured them, each in a familiar full-face helm. Around him were the downtrodden figures of around forty prisoners. Most were women and children, though one or two men staggered along with them; men who had not fought and died as they should have, men like him. One was Faro, the merchant from the forest of Mantle whose wagon Loster and Selene had found abandoned in the woods. His daughter, Mirril, walked with him, clutching at his clothes and burying her face in his midriff.

  Loster had no idea where they were going. Ever since his capture he, Selene, and the others had been led ever eastwards. The tall soldiers did not speak to them nor did they take off their helms — Loster wondered if what was underneath could be any worse. They did not seem offended if their prisoners spoke; all that was expected of the captives was that they walk and keep up. Several times on the first day people had stumbled from the column, exhausted. Those people were gathered up by sharp hands and led off, out of sight. They were not seen again. The girl, Mirril, had fallen once but Faro had picked her up and carried her like a babe until they had stopped for a rest. Tonight, there had been no rest, so most of the prisoners stayed quiet, keeping their heads down and concentrating on staying with the group. The old woman was the only one who kept up her ghoulish speculation.

  A hand touched him on the shoulder. “Stay with me, little Lord. We’re getting closer to the sea. Wherever we’re going, we’ll be there soon.”

  Loster nodded and immediately wished he hadn’t. The pain in his head rolled around like a ship caught in a violent storm. He felt nausea rise and took several deep breaths. If he blacked out, he would be dragged off into the forest like the others.

  “Look, a city.” Selene pointed and Loster peered over the heads of those in front to see a large white shape looming out of the darkness. They had passed through a city a few days earlier, a great, high-walled monstrosity of dark stone that was as silent as a crypt. Selene had told him it was Ruum but Loster did not want to believe that. He had never been to the mountain fortress but its strength was part of Verian legend. What they had passed through was an empty shell.

  Their group had been ushered into a corner of a courtyard and left until morning, accompanied only by the noise of crows and the smell of roasting flesh. Loster shuddered to think of that smell again. It had made him hungry, though he guessed at its nature. “They’re taking us to Kressel, to the second city.” Selene shook his shoulder with excitement. “If we can get away, find a boat…”

  Kressel grew larger until Loster could see that it was in fact two cities: one smaller on the shore and another, much larger, that sat out in the Scoldsee on its own rocky island. The city in the sea was on fire and the night sky straight ahead was being chased away by the orange glow from the flames. As they got closer, he became aware of a high pitched noise that hovered on the fringes of hearing.

  “Those are screams,” said the old woman. “Where are they taking us?” A few people, tired as they were, turned to look at her and then began to mutter. “They’re going to eat us, just like they did the others. They’re going to cook us in that big fire. Listen to the screams!”

  Loster heard the impact as Selene hit the old woman. She fell heavily, all the wind leaving her in a great humph. She tried to stand again but people were in a panic now, a panic that she had started. Every time she pushed herself up, she was knocked down again by the feet or knees or elbows of people too afraid to do anything else but hurry onwards. Loster closed his eyes as the old woman fell outside the ring of soldiers and began to scream. Nobody dared look back. Instead they quickened their pace and the lanky knights that guarded them seemed all too happy to match them, lifting their great legs in rhythmic lockstep.

  “Murderer!” someone yelled.

  “Quiet!” said Selene.

  “You killed her!” said another.

  The accusations flew at the Daughter of Iss and she finally bent under their weight, her protests becoming ever weaker. “She was a fool… I didn’t mean for her to fall… I only wanted her to be quiet.”

  Part of Loster felt some sympathy for the stern young woman, but his head pain was growing ever more acute as they approached the second city. They were now only a few minutes away, heading for a great dark portal next to a broken gate on the southern side. The huge white walls of the land fortress had blocked out the island city but the glow from the fires inside could still be seen staining the sky above. It seemed they were marching straight into the Pit. The noises from the city had not lessened any and now seemed to blend into one great piteous moan. It sent chills down Loster’s spine and twisted a knife into the soft tissue of his brain so that he began to see white spots in front of his eyes.

  “Selene!” he called out for her. I cannot fall, I must not fall!

  “What?” she sounded relieved. “What is it, Loster?”

  “Help me. Please, gods help me.” He felt his knees begin to buckle and he staggered. Strong arms gripped him from behind and for one dreadful moment
he thought that the tall soldiers had selected him anyway, had not even allowed him to fall down but had grabbed him, ready to drag him away out of sight.

  “Strength, lad. Use your strength,” said an accented voice. It was Faro, the merchant. Loster’s headache seemed to fade at the contact and he tried to stand up straight, but then they entered the tunnel beneath the gate and all Loster could see was a black maw with two phantom eyes of blood red hovering above.

  He screamed.

  “Stop squirming. They’re coming.”

  Riella winced as Beccorban dug an elbow into her ribs. It was dark but she could see most of the courtyard. Beccorban had chosen their hiding place well. To the left was the gatehouse guarding the Long Bridge. To the right was the tunnel that led to the Wandering Gate. The clacking sound had stopped for the moment, but it could not be long before it started again and the nightmarishly tall soldiers they had seen stalking along the coast road came into view.

  The wind howled and brought the distant screams with it. What are they doing to them? She thought again of the prisoners they had seen and the runners — how easily they had been caught and dispatched. A harsh staccato echoed off the walls around them and she closed her eyes.

  Beccorban swore. “What…?”

  Riella opened her eyes again and frowned. From the gatehouse of the Long Bridge stepped a huge warrior. He was well over eight feet tall and clad from head to toe in dark grey plate armour, carved with strange runes. His hands were encased in gauntlets that turned his fingers into sharp spider’s legs, and at every point where it would not hinder movement the armourer had added spikes and cruel edges to the metal. His helmet was a silvery wall of smooth, unlined metal, split by a thin visor. But most curious of all was the crown of his helm. It grew with metal protrusions that twisted and curled in on each other, sprouting from his head like antlers.

  “The beast rider,” said Beccorban in a low whisper. Riella nodded and then winced as her movement made the wooden wagon bed creak. “Don’t tense up,” said Beccorban. “You’ll only end up moving more. Relax. Let yourself go limp.” Riella did as she was told, though it was against all her instincts — every muscle in her body wanted to run, to escape from the metal monster that dominated the courtyard.

  Two smaller soldiers without the metal antlers stepped from the darkness behind Antler Helm. They were followed by a man. The man was not overly tall, nor was his face covered. He looked in all ways normal: a finely dressed noble one would expect to see in Temple’s citadel, or indeed, here in Kressel. Riella felt her stomach clench as the clacking began again, and before long a column of grey-armoured giants came through the tunnel. There were eight of them, with around thirty or so human prisoners in amongst them. Several, Riella noted, were children. The prisoners were marched to a stop in front of Antler Helm, though he did not deign to notice them. Instead the finely dressed human stepped forward and spread his hands, beaming a bright smile.

  “Welcome, friends. You have made it here at last, though I am afraid we have started without you.” He walked forward and the tall soldiers parted for him, allowing him to saunter up and down along the huddled mass of miserable prisoners. He reached out and tenderly brushed a lock of hair from a middle-aged woman’s face. “You must be tired. Fear not. Soon you will rest.”

  A low, melodious voice boomed across the courtyard and Riella jumped. Beccorban gripped her arm and squeezed gently. The voice belonged to Antler Helm, who said something to his human envoy. The well-dressed man nodded and set about splitting the prisoners up into groups: women, children, and men, of which there were only a handful.

  One of the women tried to break free and run back to the men. Antler Helm barked a command and a tall henchmen caught her in a few strides. He lifted her as easily as a child lifts a doll and carried her back to stand in front of his commander. The soldier held her by the shoulders, his long barbed fingers digging into her flesh and cutting through the thick woollen shift she wore.

  Antler Helm stepped forward and the woman screamed, shrill and piercing, drowning out all the other noises in the courtyard. He waved the knight holding her away. The tall warrior stepped back, blocking Riella’s view — she was secretly glad she could not see. The woman’s scream was cut short and then there was a clicking sound and a sharp crack like a whip. Something heavy fell to the floor and Riella risked the noise to clap a hand over her mouth. Beccorban squeezed her hand again but she felt the muscles all along his body tense, as eager to slip the leash of his will as dogs at the hunt.

  Antler Helm stepped back, and she could see that he was holding something. It was the woman’s head.

  Loster was floating in a sea of pain. Every slight movement splashed hot agony up the inside of his skull and he felt like he was about to throw up. When the woman tried to break free, he barely noticed. He listened to the sound of her execution and felt rather than heard the panic grow amongst the prisoners. Someone shoved him and he fell but he did not have the strength to put his hands up. He hit the muddy ground face first and wanted for all the world to close his eyes and sleep. His vision was a blur but he could see a startlingly tall silhouette holding something aloft that dripped with black liquid.

  The screams he had heard for hours suddenly sounded very close and he felt the point of whatever sharp thing was trapped in his head pierce a membrane. Light exploded behind his eyes and he tried to cry out but no sound came, just hot air that tore silently past his lips and dampened the already wet mud in front of him until it swirled around and formed a voice. It was a familiar voice yet one he had not heard for years. It began as an itching at the base of his skull, spreading as a warmth up over his head, like warm hands on his brain. It made him shiver in the manner of somebody stepping into a hot bath, and then it spoke.

  “Foolish boy-child,” it said. “You are weak. Pitiful and weak. You should have died in the mountain, not I.”

  “Barde?” he said aloud and opened his eyes.

  All was moving in slow motion. The prisoners were jostling and pushing each other; Selene was shouting, crying out at him, but he could not hear what she was saying. He sat up and saw one of the tall soldiers bearing down on him, coming to pick him up and carry him before the knight with the strange, spiked helm. He shook his head to clear it but then the voice spoke again.

  “You let Aifayne die and now you’re going to be a plaything for these demons. It’s all you could ever hope to be.”

  “No,” he shook his head again and pressed the flat of his palm against his forehead. The pain was gone but now it felt as if his brain had been taken out and the bloody cavity stuffed with sheep’s wool. There was movement out of the corner of his eye. The merchant’s girl, Mirril, broke from her group and ran towards her father. She was crying and the approaching soldier hesitated, unsure of who to grab first. Loster blinked. This was the first time he had seen any uncertainty from the tall soldiers.

  “Help her,” said Barde’s voice. “Help her like you couldn’t help Aifayne. Coward. If she dies it’s your fault.”

  Loster stood quickly. Fear was working its dark magic on his limbs but there was something else fighting it. He let out a bellow of rage and ran forward, charging his shoulder into the midriff of the tall soldier. He bounced off and fell heavily in the mud, but he had caught the soldier off balance. The metal warrior fell with a crash, letting out a low noise of pain as he landed.

  The prisoners fell silent for a moment as they took in what they had seen, then all was chaos. Selene darted forward and picked Loster up, spinning him to face the long dark tunnel they had entered by. The soldiers drew long and thick-bladed swords and waded in amongst those prisoners too dumbstruck to move. The well-dressed man raised his hands and his voice, crying out for calm, but it was no use.

  The tall knight with the spiked helm shrieked with anger but he was answered by an equally terrible scream. Loster spun on his heel to see a giant of a man clad in a black bearskin appear from nowhere. In his hands was a long warhammer and he
leapt in amongst the soldiers, swinging his weapon with incredible strength. Behind him came a young woman dressed like a man. She had a long knife in her hands but veered away from the fighting to gather up Mirril and flee towards the entrance.

  “Go! Go with her!” screamed Selene, drawing her own knife and joining the giant hammerman in the fray. Loster turned and ran towards the newcomer and Mirril. Throwing one last look over his shoulder, he saw that four of the tall soldiers were down, their helms smashed in. Some of the prisoners fought with their bare hands, clawing at metal visors and trying to pull the remaining knights down to a level where they could dispatch them. Others were running at full pelt, aiming to make it to the tunnel before they were caught again. Selene came with them. Her small blade could do little against armour. “Let’s go.” She grabbed Loster’s arm but he tugged her away. The hammerman was still fighting. They couldn’t just leave him.

  The bearskin-clad warrior had caught the tall soldiers by surprise but he could not beat them all. He seemed to realise this at the same time as Loster; downing one last foe with a well placed uppercut swing, he ducked beneath a slashing blade and began to run towards their small group, leaving the other prisoners to their fate.

  “Run, lad! Through the tunnel!” he cried.

  “Beccorban! Quickly!” The young woman called out for the big warrior to join her and he bent his head to his chest and upped his pace.