Exile (Bloodforge Book 1)

by Tom Stacey

  “I shall do no such thing. Now sit down.”

  “I told you to open your mouth.” A part of Callistan told him he was committing treason but another part urged him on and that other part had sung in a louder voice of late.

  “Remember who you are speaking to!” Illis tried to sound intimidating but ended up sounding like a petulant child instead.

  A noise made Callistan spin on his heel, leg muscles bunched.

  Pavlen stood there, eyes wide and one hand on his sword.

  “What is it, Pavlen?” Illis asked with audible relief.

  Pavlen tore his eyes from Callistan and looked past him at the Empron. “The rider, Your Highness, he has returned.”

  “The gods smile on us, Pavlen.” He brushed past Callistan and followed the provost outside, and as he did, Callistan caught another whiff of that oh so familiar smell. He grimaced.

  It was the scent of cloves.

  XXVII

  They travelled in a long, strung-out column, with the Empron riding by curtained carriage somewhere in the middle. The pace was excruciatingly slow and though it was now falling dark, they were still close enough to the sea to feel its influence. The air smelled of salt and damp vegetation, and here and there seagulls wheeled and landed to peck at things that looked like food from above. Riella paced silently alongside the weary conscripts, her long legs matching their armoured ones. It was no wonder the pace was slow. These were not the grim-faced men of the Imperial Dremon — they were far to the south in Carpathin, probably all dead by now. Veria had only these farmboys and idle scum to fight for her, swept from the gutters of Temple and Kressel and Iero and Osk to form clumsy crimson ranks. And now they weren’t even in the right country. She shook her head. How had it come to this?

  Mirril tripped up ahead and one of the nearby men laughed. A growl of warning from the looming mass of Beccorban made him fall silent and march on with renewed interest in his toes. Riella smiled to herself. The Helhammer was at his brooding best, grumbling aloud and snapping at anyone unfortunate enough to stumble within range. She knew why he was frustrated. He had been a warrior when most of these so-called soldiers were little more than an impure thought. He was taking their general lack of discipline as a personal insult.

  Earlier, as they sat by a cooking fire waiting for Callistan, Beccorban had told them of his relationship with Illis. It seemed like it had been cathartic for the old warrior, like pulling a thorn from an infected wound, and they all gathered around, eagerly drinking in every detail — all except Droswain who sat outside their circle, trying to look uninterested. Beccorban spoke of how he had met the man who was to be the Empron, how they had fought together as mercenaries in lands over the sea. He spoke of the rebellion and Illis’ capture by the Higard, how he had pulled his friend from the dungeons after the best part of a year, broken and crippled and changed. In the years following his coronation, Illis had arranged the deaths of anyone powerful enough to oppose him. That had included two great heroes of the rebellion: Bellephon Hammerfist who had died mysteriously in his sleep, and the Dread, found slain with his caravan, surrounded by piles of dead bandits.

  “I remember watching Alix, the man others called the Dread, throw ten men from the walls at Ruum, and all without a weapon,” Beccorban said wistfully. “He joined us on the first day in Kressel — he worked in the docks, you see. A proud and brave Verian. Never have I seen one so brave.”

  “Why did they call him the Dread?” asked Loster, his mouth full of roast meat. Whatever trials they faced, the Empron’s stores were as bountiful as ever.

  “I don’t really recall why, lad. I know he was a bastard to fight — used whatever he could get his hands on. I don’t think I ever saw him finish a battle with the same weapon he started it with.” Beccorban chuckled and Riella noted how Droswain rolled his eyes. “It was Alix who broke the line at Ruum, smashed right through the Higard ranks and kept on going. He won the day.” He smiled and then his smile became a frown. “Killed by bandits. Ha! Murdered, more like. He helped win Illis an empire and our Empron repaid him with one hundred swords in his back on a dusty road in the forest.” He spat.

  They all fell silent for a moment.

  “I’ve never heard of the Dread,” said Mirril with authority.

  Beccorban shrugged. “Few outside Veria have. Much about him was buried on Illis’ orders. In truth, he was a man of the moment. He rose and fell with the rebellion. Aptly named for it, if you ask me.”

  “What do you mean?” Loster forced another question around a mouthful of pork.

  “Dread,” said Beccorban. “It’s a fleeting emotion.”

  “Is it?” asked Riella. “I’m scared of the Echoes. We all are.” Mirril nodded but Loster looked away.

  “For now, yes,” said Beccorban, “and you will be again, but there are moments when you don’t think about them. Fear is a temporary emotion that can give you strength, or speed if you use it well. But if you let it, it can crush you, as it has your blond friend.” He nodded in the direction of the Empron’s crimson tent. “It has sent him mad.”

  “Callistan?” Riella asked incredulously. “You think Callistan is frightened?”

  “More than anyone.”

  At that moment, the horseman had erupted from the Empron’s tent and made straight for Crucio, ignoring any questions they had thrown at him. Soon afterwards they had set off, into the hills. Now he was somewhere at the head of the column. A lord once again. Cold. Aloof. Riella smiled as she saw Mirril trying to match the pace of the soldiers alongside. It was a wonderful thing about children that they could put themselves elsewhere, could forget all the wrongs committed against them and live in the moment. She sighed. For the moment she was alone. Even Beccorban was avoiding her.

  After Callistan had stormed past, Beccorban had expressed his desire to take the fight back to the enemy. “Look at us, almost half a thousand strong, and not even a thought of going south.”

  Droswain almost choked on a plump chicken he was devouring. It had left a greasy stain around his mouth and it made Riella’s stomach turn. “Go south? Are you mad?”

  “Is it madness to want to fight for your country, her people?”

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve discovered empathy, Beccorban. The only thing waiting for us in Veria is death.”

  “What would you know of it, priest? Give me two hundred good men, a hundred even. I could—”

  “You could do what? Die nobly? I’m sure it would be a thing of legend, Helhammer, but it would be a waste of resources.”

  “Resources!” Beccorban’s voice was incredulous.

  “Yes, resources.” Droswain put down the stripped bone he had been gnawing on and wiped his hands on his robes. “Look around you, you fool.” He spat. “There are no good men left. Illis sent all the good men to Carpathin on a pointless errand and almost lost the Greenlands to a bunch of angry rebel peasants in the process. Are your wits so addled that you think we can meet the Echoes head on?” Droswain lowered his voice. “Is this all because he didn’t recognise you?”

  Beccorban roared with anger and jumped to his feet, kicking the small blackened pot above the fire off its stand to bleed its contents on to the beach. Droswain looked up and closed his eyes, as though expecting to be struck but, oddly, Riella found herself leaping in front of the small pointy-headed priest.

  “Enough, Beccorban,” she said. “He’s right.”

  Beccorban’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say to me, girl?”

  “I said he’s right, about Veria. We can’t save her. Now sit down before you attract too much attention.”

  Beccorban breathed out slowly and returned to his seat. There was a look of betrayal in his eyes.

  “Time, Helhammer,” said Droswain, once again charming. “We need as much time as you can give us.” Watching him spin his webs, it was no surprise that he could work a crowd, and though Riella hated him for it he still made sense. He stood and looked around the circle. “We go north. Somewhere
the Echoes cannot reach us. Remember, we have Loster. We have to keep him safe.”

  To his credit, Loster blushed a dark pink, and Riella felt a pang of something other than distaste for him. It felt like pity.

  As she walked now alongside the column, Riella thought about Callistan. How could he leave them now?

  “I thought perhaps you might need some company.” Riella turned to see Droswain alongside her, looking up with a grin that begged to be wiped from his face.

  “Why are you not with Loster? Has he grown sick from your honeyed words?” she asked sweetly.

  “No, my lady. All my honeyed words are laced with sobering truth.”

  “I am no lady. You don’t have to call me that.”

  “No.” Droswain put his hands behind his back. “Alas, one not a lady and then another suddenly a lord. What a conundrum.”

  Riella stared into the side of Droswain’s head, but he did not seem to notice.

  “Did you want to hear a nasty rumour about our mutual friend?”

  “I don’t think I want anything from you, Droswain,” Riella snarled, more than she had meant to.

  “Oh, I think you will want this. I would have let you know sooner had I known that our Callistan was the Callistan.”

  Riella bit her lip. Droswain was a snake but his forked tongue promised information she wanted. The priest looked sidelong at her and he must have sensed her hunger for he grinned. She wanted to hit him.

  “You know by now that the noble Lord of Blackwatch rides among us — after all, they don’t teach you how to ride like that as a farmhand, do they? Callistan is also an Imperial Marshall. He was recently made Grand Domestic of the Dalukar, no less. A formidable warrior. It’s no wonder our beloved Illis took such a shine to him.”

  “He knows none of this,” Riella protested. “He is an amnesiac.”

  “Yes, so I have heard, but he is not only lacking in memories.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Go on,” Riella prompted impatiently.

  “He is a commoner.”

  It was said so abruptly that Riella took a moment to process it. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Callistan is not of noble blood. He tried to join the Dremon as a youth but failed the tests. To be fair, few people reach the final test anyway, but even those who do aren’t aware what they are being tested on. You see the prospective dremani undergo gruelling physical challenges. Callistan passed every one and as the Lord of a noble house he was selected for the officer corps. At the age of nineteen. I can’t tell you what an achievement that would have been.” He leaned in close to her and she smelt his sour breath. “He failed. He failed because a officer of the Dremon is tested for noble blood and Callistan’s was as commonplace as muddy water. Not a drop.” He cackled. “Of course he never found out why he failed. Only the High Priest knew and he wasn’t obliged to tell anyone — but then Reptos was a drinker, and I was his understudy.”

  Riella looked down into Droswain’s beady eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He shrugged. “Since this morning’s revelation, I simply had to share it with someone. Who better than you? Oh, by the way, I wouldn’t mention it to him. He already knows his mother was a slut. No point telling him his true father was a peasant.” He strode off without a backward glance and left her feeling light-headed.

  Beccorban appeared at her side. “What was that all about?”

  She looked up at him and could see the concern in his eyes. “I don’t think I can tell you,” she said lamely and he stalked away with a curse. She wanted to go after him and explain why but her mind was in turmoil. If Droswain was telling the truth, then it meant that Callistan was no more noble than her, though she wondered why it brought her no comfort.

  Beccorban was in a foul mood. First he had faced the shame of anonymity — a wound worse than ten thousand blades. Next he had discovered that the blond lunatic was a noble. Why that made him angry he couldn’t be sure but it had something to do with the girl. Callistan’s claims of memory loss may have fooled her but Beccorban was too canny for that. There was some design to the horseman’s convenient amnesia. He was too driven, as though he was looking for something. Beccorban grunted. He was also reckless and a dangerous fighter. The Helhammer could not remember the last man to best him in personal combat. Now that he thought about it, the last man had probably been Greathelm, and he had died in the sand with a dagger twisted into his guts. A dagger you put there, he thought.

  Even the boy was lost to him. That damned priest had ensnared Loster in a great leathery wing and it irked him. He liked the lad. He had potential; the events on the Lussido had proved that, even if he wasn’t the champion Droswain sought.

  Beccorban elbowed his way in between two ranks of soldiers so that he could reach the other side of the dirt road they marched upon. Their path curved as it climbed the hill and he wanted to get a broader picture of this shambles of a column. One of the conscripts opened his mouth to protest as Beccorban shoved through, then quickly snapped it shut as he realised who it was. They’re scared of you, he thought. Good. Maybe they will be less scared of the enemy.

  There were only a few hundred in the column, but it was strung out over nearly half a mile, with no thought towards order or rank. Far too long. Vulnerable. It did not help that the roads here were old and uncared for. It had been centuries since the mighty Dalvossi legions had marched here. Now only small bands of skirmishers remained, good for nothing but the odd pointless raid in Verian or Respini territory. Even Illis’ hunger for land had not stretched far past Fend. There was nothing here. Just a miserable land of ruins and ghosts.

  The soldiers stumbled past him with their heads down and shoulders slumped, exhausted from the climb. Pathetic, he thought. He hadn’t heard much about the rebellion from his hide in the Dantus, but the rebels should have torn these men apart. He refused to call the rebels the Sons of Iss. He had met the real Sons before and they could not field an army, though they were still a terrible enemy.

  “Pick your heads up!” he roared suddenly, causing the nearest to flinch. “You are soldiers of Veria. Act like it.”

  Some raised their heads sullenly but most ignored him, ducking behind the men in front of them and bowing their heads until they were past this strange man who shouted at them in the dusk.

  Beccorban sighed and turned to look towards the front of the column. Illis’ carriage was somewhere up there, protected by little more than a few scouts mounted on lean horses. He grunted. A motley crew of amateurs, and all to protect the most powerful man in Daegermund.

  He looked up. Night was approaching. It hovered overhead like a cloak of dark sable, while behind the sky was a deep orange, the sun a perfect orb above the eastern horizon, so close to the water that he thought he might see a cloud of steam as it sank lower.

  A horn called from the head of the column and the men came to a juddering halt. Were this a regular unit, a vetero would have been storming up and down, keeping people on their feet and screaming bloody murder. However, since there were no experienced soldiers here, many just slumped to the ground, chests heaving and armour clanking. Some moved off to the handful of wagons and began to unload bedrolls and tents. Surely they weren’t going to camp here? They were still on a slope. Another hour’s march and they could have made it to the top where there was bound to be some kind of plateau or more defensible position. The soldiers broke themselves up into smaller groups, some even wandering off into the trees on either side of the path to rest their weary backs against the pines, or start their cookfires with no thought to concealment. This is madness, thought Beccorban. Where is the discipline? The structure? He wanted to scream aloud but he had already had one outburst and that had attracted enough attention for now. In fact, some of the conscripts nearby were already casting surly glances in his direction. He turned away in disgust and looked back down the hill, at the path that had carried them through forest and stream, all the way from the beach.

  As he w
atched, the sun slipped down below the horizon. Sometimes during his time in the Dantus, he had found himself watching the sunset from a stone shelf that formed a natural bench. The altitude meant the air was clear more often than not and it allowed a perfect view of the land between him and the Scoldsee. On the clearest days, he could just about make out the spires of Kressel as a hazy series of jagged bumps. In the summer, or spring if it was warm enough, he would sit there and wait until nightfall. It brought him comfort, and he never really knew why else he did it. Perhaps it was because the death of another day was progress. One more day without spilling blood. One more day without Niralla. He twisted his mouth to the side. Riella had tried to ask about her, but he did not want to speak about that part of his life. He did not need to. He was at peace with it. That life could never last for you.

  With the sun gone, the darkness began to bleed downwards, staining the orange with blue-black. He stood like a sentinel as night grew deeper, ignoring the mutterings behind him and the clamour of an ungoverned camp. He frowned. There was still a stubborn orange haze spilling over the horizon and limning the land below him. He had never been this far north but surely day and night were the same? A few who had been to distant Ri’esh told of lights in the sky that sent men mad but they were too far south for that.

  A low mournful horn rent the air and none of the soldiers reacted, for they were already setting their camp. Yet Beccorban grew suddenly tense, for it was a note he had heard before and it was not made by man. It sounded again and his stomach dropped away.

  The orange haze. They were burning the ships.

  He turned to run and crashed into an unfortunate young soldier who had come to offer him a plate of food. They both went sprawling but Beccorban rolled back on to his feet and carried on. A few had picked up on the alien sound and stood staring back down towards the bay, as if waiting for confirmation. Most still rested or laughed with their comrades as if all was well.