by Tom Stacey
Riella nodded unable to look in Callistan’s direction. He had called her girl. Why had she not snapped at him? She stared after Beccorban. The old warrior was trying to effect an aimless shuffle — doubtless he thought himself a convincing fisherman.
She would normally have laughed but there was a deep sadness swelling inside her, all because of a man she barely knew.
They walked in two small groups: Loster and Droswain led the way, with the small priest constantly leaning over to speak into Loster’s ear. Riella and Mirril came next with Beccorban following closely behind, trying and failing to appear inconspicuous.
“What’s he like?” asked Mirril suddenly. Riella looked down at the dead merchant’s daughter. She frowned and tried to look as though she were considering the question. In truth she did not know what to say. Most had heard the official stories of imperial kindness and magnanimity but more knew the truths passed around crowded drinking halls and echoed in the streets and the alleyways. Illis was a bastard. To make matters worse he was a cruel bastard, half mad with the other half as rotten as a maggoty apple. She wondered what Beccorban’s opinions were on the Empron. After all, he had not seen Illis in decades and this was the man that had sent others to kill him. This was the man who had thrown thousands of Verians and press-ganged foreigners to their deaths in costly wars; the man who had taken what land he desired with force of arms and cast her nation, Kaleni, back fifty years by turning their glorious revolution full circle. Within months of the overthrow of the government, the hated nobles who had starved the Kaleni people had been forcefully replaced by faceless Verian equivalents and the new overlords had even less compulsion to show mercy to the common folk. To people like her, Illis was a military ruler, kept in place by the wealth he had stolen and the mighty Dremon that he wielded like a bully with a big stick. What is the Empron like? she thought. Like every other black-souled nobleman that ever lived but then worse than all of them put together.
“He’s a kind man,” she said at last, ignoring the snort of disbelief from the poorly disguised mountain behind her.
They approached the camp slowly, taking in the activity around them. There were almost three hundred soldiers on the beach and more drifting in all the time: long, ragged columns, all wearing the crimson armour of conscripts. Riella knew Verian soldiers only too well; they were ever-present in Lanark and more than a few had visited her to spend their earnings. The vast majority here were common soldiers in unadorned and crudely painted plate armour. Here and there a few sarifs swaggered around with the misplaced arrogance of junior command and further away, near the Empron’s tent, stood two members of the Provost Guard, Illis’ personal bodyguards. There were soldiers polishing armour and sharpening weapons, soldiers cooking over small, smokeless fires; still more were gathering what loose brush and driftwood they could, tying them into great, spiky bundles and dragging them into lines that intersected the beach. In all things there was one underlying problem that nagged at the back of her mind: where were the older soldiers? Every face she could see was young and fresh, untroubled by memories of war. Where are the greybeards?
“Beccorban?” she turned to ask him a question, and he panicked and waved her away.
“Ssssh!!”
“Oh, hush, you great oaf!” she snapped and the big man blinked in surprise. He opened his mouth to say something and then grunted and pulled his hood down further over his brow instead. “Look to the camp,” she continued. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you?”
Beccorban’s professional interest overcame his caution and he lifted his hood slightly to cast his eyes over the scene. He frowned. “Where are the veteros?” he asked. “Are they setting camp here?” His voice was incredulous. He looked up at the black cliff that stretched overhead. “A group of children with stones and slings could take the camp from there!”
“You should say something,” offered Riella.
He looked at her as though she were mad. “To who? Illis? The man who wants my head? Or perhaps to one of the provosts?” He pointed to a black-cloaked officer outside the Empron’s tent. “I’m sure he’d love to take orders from a fisherman.”
“But you can’t be a fisherman!” protested Mirril. “You don’t smell like fish!”
Beccorban’s brows knotted in confusion and then he simply laughed instead, a great booming rumble that made Droswain turn around and stare at them. He was joined by several nearby conscripts who ran nervous eyes over the large man and the strange company he kept: a girl, a priest, a whore, and the saviour of Veria.
“Hail Illis, first of his name!” Droswain cried. The two men that guarded the Empron were provosts, with cloaks of purest black to reflect the gravity of their duty. When Droswain spoke, they both flinched, as though shocked that anybody would dare approach the imperial tent. However their eyes were hard and wary and they gripped their ceremonial spears with restless hands. “We seek an audience with the Empron,” said Droswain smoothly, sweeping out a hand to encompass the others.
The two provosts shared a worried look and then one stepped forward. “How did you get past the guards?”
Droswain blinked in surprise and looked around theatrically. “Guards? I saw no guards. Not before you.”
Another worried glance. “You’re not supposed to be here. The Empron is, uh, indisposed at the moment. He cannot host guests.”
“But I bring news, gentlemen, great news that will be of the utmost interest to the Empron.”
“This is a military camp,” the other provost cut in, “and we are officers of His Imperial Majesty’s Provost Guard. You will leave at once.” He brandished his spear menacingly but Droswain continued, unimpressed.
“Gentlemen, I understand that you are doing your duty, but—”
“Leave now!” The second provost took a step forward and Riella felt Beccorban stir behind her, but then they were interrupted.
There was a noise like whispering thunder, seasoned with the click-a-clack of stones falling atop and amongst one another. Riella turned to see the cause but was roughly shoved aside by the second provost, who barged past her with his spear held low. She grabbed hold of Mirril’s clutching hand and looked up again to see what had caused the man’s fear.
Callistan was bearing down on them at full pace, bent low along Crucio’s neck with his ragged hair flung out behind him like a golden pennant. Every time she saw him she was both ashamed and excited by the warm stirrings in her belly, now laced with the painful thought of his leaving. He was a handsome man but his face was marred by scars and old blisters and covered in patches of filth and blood that he had not bothered to clean off. Riella knew that if she were to have five minutes alone with him and a pail of water she could scrub him back into beauty, but there was no chance she would get that opportunity. Not now. She watched him as he rode closer, guiding the horse with an arrogance born of practice, his once-white tunic stained a dark rust-coloured brown on one side. He was followed by a handful of scruffy-looking soldiers who ran to catch him, their faces as red as their armour.
“Stop! Stop at once!” The young provost’s panic was evident but Callistan could not hear him and there was little chance he would have stopped if he could. Instead he smacked the flat of his hand across Crucio’s rump and, with a great bellow of protest, the great warhorse leaped clean over a cookfire, scattering the confused soldiers there. The horse landed gracefully on the loose scree of the beach and powered on. A pebble flung by one of its hooves flew backwards like a slinger’s shot and cracked off of a metal cooking pot with a deafening gong. It left a silver scar on the black metal and Riella winced to think what would have happened if it had hit a person.
“He’s coming for the Empron! Stop him!” The provost screamed at the men in Callistan’s wake and they doubled their pace. The first provost had disappeared inside the tent, whilst Callistan suddenly seemed to realise he was being followed and so reined Crucio down to a trot. As he came face to face with the provost’s spear, Callistan did not stop but inst
ead hauled Crucio to one side so that he wheeled back around to look at his pursuers. The provost, taken aback by the wild horseman’s casual dismissal of him, let the tip of his spear droop. Then anger took hold and he raised it again, stepping forward to plunge the long steel point into Crucio’s flank.
“Calm, lad! He means no harm.” Beccorban, still with his hood up, appeared at the young soldier’s side and gently patted the spear down again. The provost looked at the big man and saw the power there. He lowered his weapon, then shivered as a fragile voice not made for high volumes tore from the tent behind him.
“What in all Hel is going on out here?” The leather flaps that formed the entrance to the tent exploded outwards and a lean, crooked man in ill-fitting robes of dazzling white came out. He would have been tall had he stood upright but his head seemed to jut outwards as though it had been attached incorrectly. His left arm was bent close to his body and was oddly stiff. None of the descriptions Riella had heard of him were right.
What little she knew of Verian history was mostly bled down from Respin, the northern neighbours of her Kaleni homeland. She had heard that the Helhammer was a great slavering beast who ate babes. On meeting Beccorban, she had discovered that he was just a man — though still as intimidating as only the Scourge of Iss could be. Illis’ character was painted in blacks and whites. To the Verian soldiers that had swaggered around Lanark he was a hero, kind and noble. To those Respini brave enough to speak freely — usually visitors to her bed — Illis was a poisonous coward, an usurper and a murderer.
As she looked upon this strange, crooked man, she thought how different he was to Beccorban. The Helhammer was big and strong and age was simply a number to him. Illis looked broken. His face was unbearded, as was the fashion amongst the nobility, but it gave him the perverse appearance of gaunt youth. It looked as though he had not slept in a long time: his bright blue eyes were ringed with dark blotches that bled into grey skin, starved of sunlight. His nose was flat and wide and grew upwards into a large forehead that sprouted steel grey hair, pulled back into a greasy knot at the nape of his neck. It was the only part of him that could be considered neat. “Visitors, hmmm? Visitors for me?” Illis spoke to no one in particular, though his eyes lingered on every face before him with the hunger of a wolf selecting choice cuts. “Visitors, Xinos, and you did not tell me.” His voice was disapproving.
“Not visitors, Your Majesty, trespassers.”
“What?” Illis frowned. “Trespassers! In my camp?! Come to kill me. Aha!” Riella felt Beccorban stir beside her. “Nonsense, Xinos. They have a little girl. Even the Burned Ones would not stoop so low.”
“There are other threats than the Sons of Iss, Your Majesty.”
“Pah!” Illis waved away the young provost’s protests and then gasped in surprise. Beccorban squirmed. “Lord Callistan.” He took an involuntary step backwards. “I did not expect to see you so far north.”
As one the party turned in shock to stare at the blond horseman, who frowned and looked bashful. “Your Majesty,” he mumbled.
“You’re a lord?!” Beccorban boomed, forgetting in his surprise that he was supposed to be in disguise. He tore his hood off and marched over to Crucio, wrapping one hand around the loose reins as though he were afraid Callistan might ride away and thus escape his scrutiny. “The Lord of what?” he demanded.
“Blackwatch,” Droswain answered for him, his voice husky with revelation. “You are Callistan Imbros.”
“You there!” Illis pointed at Beccorban and Riella winced in anticipation. “Unhand that horse. You are speaking to one of my Marhsalls!”
Beccorban let go and stood staring grimly at Illis, waiting for him to recognise the man who had helped build his empire.
“There, good man,” Illis continued. “Come, Lord Callistan, we have much to discuss.” The Empron turned with a flourish and disappeared into his tent. Callistan leapt down lightly from Crucio’s back, pausing to slap the reins into Beccorban’s still open palm. He shouldered past the old warrior and vanished behind Illis.
There was a brief silence and then Beccorban said softly, “He didn’t recognise me. He saw me but he didn’t know who I was.”
“Well it has been a few years, Helhammer,” said Droswain dryly. He was trying to hide a grin and Riella wanted to wipe it off but she was too shocked to be baited.
She went and stood next to Beccorban. “It has been a long time. You said so yourself.”
He shook his head. “No, lass. We were as brothers once. Something’s not right.”
Riella laid a small hand on the big hammerman’s arm and squeezed gently. “Let’s go and rest. We can talk about it if you’d like.”
Beccorban looked down at her as though he had only just seen her and nodded once. They moved off, leaving Droswain still arguing for an audience. Riella allowed herself one more glance at the tent. A lord, indeed. Now he was truly gone. Out of reach even if he stayed. She looked up at the giant striding beside her. He had fought his way to the top after starting at the bottom. What had she done? I murdered a drunk with his trews down, she thought.
She suddenly felt very alone.
“Come, sit.”
As Callistan moved into the dark interior of the tent, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. They had laid great wooden planks on the ground to hide the stones and sand and then covered them with fur. Opulent indeed, but then this was the Empron before him, ruler of all in Daegermund worth ruling; a man he should remember but could not.
Illis kept it dim: there were a few small candles dotted around, though each was little more than a stubby mess of frozen wax. It was oppressively hot and Callistan immediately felt sweat begin to bead on his skin. He counted four braziers of blackened iron that glowed a sunset orange.
Illis gestured again for Callistan to take a seat and took one of his own behind a large wooden desk of carved rosewood. It was a lovely thing engraved with flowers and animals and topped in a dark, red leather. Callistan took a simple wooden chair opposite Illis that creaked lightly as he sat down. A fluttering noise behind him made him turn. One of the provosts made his way into the tent and stood straight, hands resting on his weapon.
“No, thank you Pavlen. We will be quite alright.” Illis shooed him away. “Go and find the Lord Callistan’s companions. See that they’re fed.”
“But—”
“No buts, man! Go!” Pavlen hesitated for a moment more then stormed from the tent. Callistan could not help but grin at the young soldier’s irritation. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes — a drink?” Illis leapt to his feet with a sudden energy and made his way to an ornate crystal decanter on a sideboard. It was filled with a dark red liquid that looked as thick as blood.
“Just water please, Your Majesty.” It was so hot in here that Callistan could not stomach the thought of wine.
Illis hesitated, shrugged, and moved over to a simple pewter jug. He poured a healthy amount into a wooden beaker, spilling some in his haste. “You are not into the, uh, stronger stuff? Hmmmm?”
Callistan shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. I haven’t had a drink in…” he spread his hands, “hours.”
A whimper escaped Illis and Callistan assumed it was supposed to be a laugh. “A joke, yes, a joke. Very good.” The Empron returned to his seat and set the beaker down clumsily on the table.
Callistan reached out to take it and as he did he caught a scent of something familiar that he could not quite place. He picked up the beaker and took a careful sip of the unpleasantly warm liquid.
“Tell me, what brings you here?” said Illis. “How go things in the south?”
Callistan knitted his brows and felt the tug of a cut above his left eye. “Do you mean the invasion? I thought you had come from Kressel, Your Majesty.”
“Uh, yes. Kressel. Indeed.” He looked into the distance. “I thought it best to get out of the way. Leave things to the others. Made it out on the — oh, now that I think of it, it doesn’t have a name.” He waved his r
ight arm in the air. “The flagship. Big ship. Came here.” He returned his gaze to Callistan. “So what progress are we making?”
Callistan placed the beaker back on to the table. Was he being mocked? “We are losing, Your Majesty.”
“Losing?” Illis’ tone was wary. “Have you not come from Temple?”
Callistan shook his head, and for a moment he caught a flicker of panic in the bright blue eyes of the Empron. Illis stood abruptly and turned his back on Callistan. He pulled the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured himself a healthy dose of the blood-red wine into an equally ornate crystal tumbler.
Callistan narrowed his eyes. He could feel his pulse beginning to quicken. “You know we have been invaded, Your Majesty, that the major cities of Veria are in the hands of an enemy greater than anything we’ve ever faced. Why then, do you hide away in the north?”
“Hide? I, uh, I have done everything I could. Are you displeased?”
Callistan’s mind raced. “Displeased? You have abandoned your people. Left them to die at the hands of demons.”
“Demons? I…you can’t speak to me like that, I am the Em—”
Callistan stood and the squeal of his chair on the wooden floor cut Illis short. “Droswain, the priest outside, called them Echoes but there are others. There are those that steal the guise of men and walk among us wearing their flesh.” Callistan had been turning that familiar smell over and over again in his head, swirling it around a phantom tongue as though sampling a fine wine. He began to walk towards the Empron and the smell grew again, though now it mingled with the scent of the candles and the strong scent of cooking meat from the fires outside.
Illis turned to him and his eyes widened as he saw how close the horseman was. “What are you doing?”
“Open your mouth,” Callistan’s voice was low as he struggled to stay calm.
“What?”
“Open your mouth,” he said again, louder, taking another step towards the crooked man in front of him.
