Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (15 page)

“Even from the floor?
High praise, woodsman,” said Hari.

Beccorban grunted. He
had never told Hari his name and Hari had never asked. A tavern keeper did not
make regular customers by asking too many questions. That did not mean that
Beccorban could afford to be careless. His name was still feared, even this far
out from the Heartlands. He did not want unwelcome trouble.

Yellen let out a shrill
whine and went into a rage, screaming and pulling at the blade in short bursts
of energy that served only to damage his pinned hand further.

“You need to keep your
friend under control, young Tollett,” said Beccorban. “I’m beginning to dislike
him.” A few of the onlookers from outside had appeared at the doorway of the
tavern and were watching the confrontation with interest. Hari tried to shoo
them away but they ignored him. Hana appeared from the back room and gasped in
surprise but her father was there to catch her around the waist and keep her
hushed.

Tollet nodded. “Yellen,
you need to keep quiet.”

“Quiet? Quiet! My
fucking hand, look what he’s done to my hand, Tollett! Kill him!”

“Shut up!”

Yellen made a weird
noise in the back of his throat but dutifully quieted down.

“Good,” said Beccorban.
“You have authority here and he must never forget that. You’re doing well. Now
I have some questions. You shall answer them and then I will let you up, and
you and your foolish friend can bugger off back to your mothers. How does that
sound?”

Tollett nodded again.
“Who are you?” he asked, his eyes betraying a respect born of fear.

Beccorban had seen that
look before. “Only answers from you, boy. No questions. Why are you here?”

“W-we were told to stay
behind, to wait for the others to come back. But you… you—”

“I killed them, yes.”

“But there were nine of
them,” said Tollett in a small voice.

“And now there are
none!” snapped Beccorban, his face filling with red rage.

Hari coughed and spoke
up. “Woodsman, you can’t bring blood here. If people are following you—”

Beccorban did not bother
to turn around. “I didn’t leave anybody to follow me. Have no fear, Hari.”
Beccorban turned back to the terrified boy in crimson armour. “Why were you
sent up here?” He tapped Tollett’s crudely painted breastplate. “This is
conscript’s plate. It’s barely even metal. There aren’t any garrisons near here
and you’re a long way from Kressel.”

Tollett craned his head
to look at Yellen.

“He can’t help you, boy.
Answer me.”

Tollett swallowed and
tried to match Beccorban’s icy gaze, quickly failing and looking at a point
behind his captor’s head. “We weren’t told much, but we were trying to find
someone. You. I know the orders came from the Empron himself.”

“The Empron gave a
conscript orders?” asked Hari incredulously.

Well, no,” said Tollett.

“Not entirely mad then,”
said Hari under his breath.

“But the orders were
passed down!” Tollett protested. “Directly! ‘Find the old man.’”

“Why are they looking
for you?” asked Hana.

“Quiet, girl,” said
Hari.

Beccorban blinked, glad
that the girl’s question had been dismissed. “What of the tall man who wore
this mask?” said Beccorban, gesturing at his discarded metal face.

Tollett blinked. “Uh, we
saw very little of him. He never spoke to us. He always wore a hood and a
cloak.”

“And the mask,”
Beccorban added.

“Yes, of course.”

“So you never saw his
face?”

“No,” said Tollett,
frowning.

Beccorban thought again
of that strange, mournful face with pale bluish skin and ears that tapered to a
point. He stood abruptly and walked back to his chair. As he passed the
cringing Yellen, he tore the knife out of the boy’s hand with callous ease.
Yellen gasped and then screamed anew, falling to the rushes on the floor and
clutching his hand to stem the flow of blood. Beccorban gathered up his bundled
fur cloak and walked to the bar, careful to keep Kreyiss concealed. “I need to
get to Kressel and soon. I’m going to need some supplies. I have coin.”

“I don’t have much
left,” said Hari. “These idiots took most of it.” Anger darkened his face. “And
tried to take more besides.”

Beccorban raised an
eyebrow and turned to look back at Tollett, who was helping the unfortunate
Yellen to his feet. Tollett caught his gaze and betrayed himself with a glance
flicked towards Hana, who still hid behind her father. A burning claw of anger
gripped the back of Beccorban’s neck. His mind filled with hurried images he
had thought he could forget. They moved so quickly behind his eyes it was as if
they were afraid to cross his line of sight. “You wear swords better than you
could ever hope to wield them,” he sneered at the two young soldiers. “Did they
hurt you, girl?”

She shook her head,
afraid to look up.

“Thank the gods for
that, boys,” he said.

“It wasn’t the gods,”
said Hana meekly. “It was the lady over there.” Hana pointed at the shrouded
woman in the corner. “She saved me.”

Beccorban grinned
savagely. “Bested by a woman, eh? Truly Veria is in trouble if you are all it
can muster.” He turned to look at the slight figure in strange garb sitting in
the corner. Beccorban looked back at Hari. “How did she manage to best two
fully armoured men?”

“Three,” said Hari, with
a twist of the mouth. “The other is out back with a fourth, spilling his guts
up.”

“Three?” Beccorban could
not keep the surprise from his voice. “How?”

“With a sharp blade and
the promise of blood,” said a small but confident voice.

Beccorban turned
quickly, his hand going to his knife. “I don’t like being snuck up on, girl,”
he said in a low growl. He had not heard her move at all and was having
uncomfortable memories of a similar moment by an open grave in a dark forest
clearing.

“They never do, old
man,” she said, and there was laughter in her deep brown eyes.
Beautiful eyes,
he thought.

“What is your name,
girl?” he asked.

“Riella. What is yours?”

Beccorban swallowed. “It
would be of no interest to you.” He turned back to Hari. “I mean to go by the
coast road, but will need a place to stay for the night.”

“Aye,” said Hari, “the
coast road will be easier. The snows haven’t fallen yet in the lowlands. They
are later than they have ever been, but it makes travelling simpler for now. Be
ware though, woodsman. There have been some strange sightings on that road, and
storms are ever sweeping in from the Scoldsee. You would do well to have a
shelter in mind between here and the second city. Even you won’t last long in
the open.”

“Tallow?” Beccorban
asked.

“Aye, that may serve.
Times are hard though. Hospitality might not be what it was.”

“What of your
hospitality? Do you have a room to spare?”

“As you know, I have
only one room, and it is taken.”

There was a loud creak
from upstairs as somebody put their weight on an old floorboard. It was
followed by a heavy trudge and a hoarse mumbling as an old, bedraggled man with
long greasy hair and a moth-bitten blanket around his shoulders appeared from
the door behind the bar, a few dishevelled possessions tucked under his arm. He
stopped briefly to cast rheumy eyes over the assembly and then carried on, out
past the gawpers at the door and into the snow.

“Be well, Micah,” called
Hari after him. He smiled as he was rewarded by a retreating stream of slurred
curses.

“It seems your room has
just become free,” said Beccorban.

Hari shook his head.
“No, woodsman. Micah is making room for our new guest.” He nodded at Riella.

Beccorban looked at the
young woman, who still hovered near his elbow. “If it is an auction you want, I
have more coin.”

Hari shook his head
again. “Not coin. It was a reward for services rendered. I’m sorry, woodsman,
but I honour my debts. I can give you supplies but no more.”

“You’re going to
Kressel.” Riella spoke and when she did it was not a question so much as it was
a statement of fact.

“Yes,” answered
Beccorban, too gruffly. “What business is it of yours?”

“I need to get to
Kressel, but I would rather not go alone. If you would travel with me, you can
share my room for the night.”

Beccorban snorted. “I am
too old for that, lass. Find yourself another bed partner.” He pointed at
Tollett, who blushed. “Your last victim seems a willing candidate.”

Her eyes flashed with
fire. “I did not say that you could share my bed, old man, but my room. Make
sure you know the difference if you want to leave this tavern with all that you
came in with.”

Beccorban paused, unsure
of how to continue. Unable to control himself, he laughed. It just seemed to
make her angrier. “You can travel fast and light?” he asked. “I shan’t wait for
you.”

Her expression softened.
“I travel with what you see.”

“Good.” Beccorban looked
at her and could not help but like what he saw. “Then you have a deal.” He held
out his hand and, to his surprise, she took it in the warrior’s grip, clasping
his wrist with strength.

She released his hand
and pushed past Hari, disappearing up the stairs silently.

Beccorban laid a silver
finn on the pitted wooden bar. “For the room.” He turned to look at the
soldiers. “You two will be gone before I’m back, or you will have more than a
sore hand to worry about.” Yellen looked like he was going to say something and
then thought better of it. With Tollett supporting him, he shuffled out into
the snow.

“You can keep the
silver,” said Hari. “You don’t need to pay for the room.”

“I’ll pay for the
beefsteak, then,” said Beccorban, walking past Hari and making for the stairs.
“It really was very good.”

Hari laughed and a few
of the lines eased from his face. “I’ll have some ale sent up.”

“No, not ale. Just
water.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I know, but your ale is
piss.”

There were twenty of
them in two groups of ten, and they had been combing the undergrowth at the
base of the hillock for over an hour. There was nothing wrong with their
method, save that Callistan would have done it differently. They were right to
search where they were searching, of course. Atop the hillock sat a tumble of
ruins, no doubt all that remained of a watchtower or stone fortress built by
the early settlers of this land. It was easy to imagine that a terrified
fugitive would hole up in the deceptive shelter on the hill. Man is a
domesticated creature and ever yearns for the comfort of walls and a roof.

But Callistan was not a
terrified fugitive. He was a man on a mission — wronged and wounded,
true, but now his tormentors would learn his measure.

The Lord of Blackwatch
breathed out slowly and took a look around him to make certain he was not being
snuck up on. He was still working mostly on reflex. His memory may have fled
him but his instincts had stayed true and he had quickly learned to trust them
implicitly.

He had expected to be
followed — only a fool would not have — but never so soon. At the
end of his second day out from the capital, he had lit a fire to warm his bones
and cook his food: a scrawny hare he had killed with a well-thrown stone.
Nothing seemed wrong at first. His camp was in a shallow dell that had plenty
of canopy cover overhead and stout trees all around to conceal him. However,
the enemy had brought hounds, and it didn’t take them long to stumble on his
hiding place. One of the dogs, a pup, had given himself away, yapping excitedly
at the first scent of the man he was tasked to find. Callistan had fled
headlong, scooping up his pack and sword, and bolting blindly through the
darkness, his meagre meal untouched. Fear gave him speed and he ran until he
was sure he would collide with a tree or trip on a rock and knock himself
unconscious. The gods must have taken pity on him for they sent him a stream,
and though it was shallow, it was enough for the dogs to lose his scent.

He followed the stream
for hours until the false dawn painted the sky grey. Eventually, the waters led
him to a small lake with a cave nearby. It was little more than a gap between
two mammoth slabs of rock that lay overlapping like fallen bookends, but it was
dry and dark and showed no evidence of other inhabitants: no bones or stray
hairs that could have belonged to a wolf or a bear. Or whatever else was out
here.

Then the rains came.
They weren’t the flood rains that plagued the Southlands most winters, nor were
they the rains that fell every day without fail in some faraway place, the name
of which he could not remember — or had he made that up? Instead these
rains were a brief squall, the tail end of a storm from the region to the east
known as the Watch. His home.

The rains fell for the
whole morning, and his pursuers had been forced to stall their search. Even a
hunting dog could not track a man in a torrential downpour. While his pursuers
shivered, Callistan sheltered in the cave, emerging dry and rested —
though still hungry — to gain a lead over the slipskin’s unknowing
minions. Now he lay in a deep trench some ten paces inside a thick copse of
trees, watching armed men poke at bushes with the shafts of their spears and
lead tired dogs on fruitless sorties up the hill. As he watched, one of the
tracker teams — a bent-backed man and a small white terrier with patches
of brown fur — made their way from the summit. The man was saying
something, shouting down to an officer on horseback who waited at the bottom of
the hill.

Suddenly the terrier
leapt forward, excited by the smell of the horse. The tracker holding his lead
was yanked from his feet to slide face down through the mud to the bottom of
the hill. A great jeer went up from the others and the tracker rose, red face
caked in brown. He kicked the dog savagely in the ribs. It yelped and tried to
run but the tracker was still holding its lead. After some more struggling it
gave up and sank to its haunches, covering its nose with its paws and whining
piteously. Callistan winced in sympathy and tentatively probed his own ribs.
His body was healing and he felt stronger every day, but it was a slow process.
He stared glumly at his gloved left hand. Some of his wounds could never heal.

He thought of the
slipskin and its performance at the square in Temple.
What had it been trying to achieve?
The people had already accepted
it as the real Callistan; he had the bruises to prove it. Had it simply been
more gloating? Maybe it wanted him to know despair before he died. That was a
possibility, though it seemed oddly wasteful. The point had been to present
Callistan to the Empron as evidence of hidden enemies, had it not?
Why waste the time in the square? Pride?
Had the beast wanted accolade?
That did not fit with its talk of grand
schemes and vengeful enemies. It seemed… petty. Yes, that was the word: petty.
Maybe spite isn’t a uniquely human emotion,
thought
Callistan. The slipskin was most definitely not human.

He had very little
memory of the landscape, but it felt good to be moving forward with a
destination in mind. The mad rush to get back to his family had faded to a
cool, calculated reserve. He had to find them, but there was no faster option
available to him, and so he had quickly learned to live with all the little
frustrations travelling on foot could throw his way. Being followed was simply
one more annoyance. But it didn’t matter, because he had a plan; a plan that
centred on the young officer’s magnificent horse.

It was interesting to
observe how the men chasing him worked. They were mostly city watchmen in dark
brown jerkins, though a few were trackers in their own rough homespun and cloth
cut in greens and browns. They were led by an officer in crimson plate mail.
Besides the horse he rode, and the fact that he was the only man in armour, it
was obvious he was in charge from the way he directed the men. The mounted
soldier looked like a missel, the most junior member of the Verian officer
corps, but Callistan could not be sure. In truth, he knew he would be a little
offended if they had sent someone so junior to hunt him down, although he was
too far away to clearly make out the number of golden rings on the officer’s
pauldrons.

However, the man
betrayed his lowly rank in subtle ways. Callistan had been watching for hours
now, and most of his time had been spent on the young officer. For a start, the
Missel had not set a picket screen. Granted, he was only leading a small force
and was in friendly territory, yet he had enough men to spare a few roving
sentries to protect the trackers as they worked. Besides, for all they knew
they were after a desperate man — they had most likely been told that he
was a slipskin. What was to stop him ambushing a tracker party or picking off
the smaller groups? Instead, the officer seemed content to let his men roam
around. Indeed, it was as if he was afraid of them. He had not gotten off his
horse all day and Callistan could swear that the young officer flinched
whenever a watchman spoke to him.

Yet most telling of all
was the sword he wore. It was a gaudy thing, in a gold scabbard with bright
jewels of many colours along the length. Callistan would not have been
surprised if the blade was made of gold too. It was an obvious commission gift,
probably presented to him by proud parents on his graduation from the military
school in Iero. There was nothing wrong with wearing such a bauble in parades
or ceremonial duties, but in the field it was the mark of a fool, and a
conscripted army that relied on its veteros and officer corps did not have much
time for fools. The boy would find his blade stolen within a week, perhaps even
by one of the men he now led. If the gods were good, a senior officer would
warn him of his folly and recommend he chop it up with good, practical steel,
and sell it for better armour. Armour saved your life, trinkets got you killed.

Callistan rubbed at the
stump of his finger. The weather made it ache, and he flexed the whole hand,
feeling the skin stretch over the crudely cut bone. One of Hapal’s men had
cleaned it up somewhat, but it still threatened to break its stitches and spill
warm blood down his arm. That made him afraid. Dogs could smell blood. He
gently rubbed the pad of his thumb over the wound, probing the swollen flesh
for the tender spots that would suggest infection or loose shards of bone.
There had been a ring there once but whatever significance it had held was lost
to him now, like so many things. He smiled to himself.
Perhaps Raiya will know,
he thought.

Callistan watched the
Missel watch his men. If he had been leading the hunt, he would have split them
into smaller groups. They ought to have been in groups of five, or maybe even
three. That way they would cover more ground, and if they cornered him, then
three men would be more than a match for one, especially one so tired and
tortured. Surely the slipskin thought it had done enough to slow him? It was
supposed to know every physical aspect of those it mimicked.
Does it know my limits?

It
knows I have family,
he thought. Hopefully it did not know where
they were. Hapal had told him, but who else knew where to go? Would it
understand what drove him? Did it have family of its own? Callistan shuddered
at the thought — surely those things did not breed.

He grunted as the
officer rode out of sight. It looked like the men were moving on, and Callistan
had a horse to steal.

He could smell the
horse. They had tethered it a stone’s throw from the main camp, near a
silhouette that was probably a tent. Otherwise it seemed that the horse was by
itself and there was no sign of sentries. The horse had a sweaty, musty smell,
but it was oddly comforting and it rolled down the hill to meld with the rich
scent of soil and wet earth.

Callistan reached behind
himself and pulled his falcata around so that it would not stick into the
ground and trip him when he crouched. It was a horseman’s weapon but he did not
have a horse. Not yet. He plucked a piece of grass from the ground in front of
him, placed it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. It was still damp from the
day’s rainfall and it smelt green and fresh. Smell was important to him. It was
dark out here and he was well hidden, but he risked discovery the closer he got
to the camp. The men in their world of light around the bright fires would be
relying on sight, but Callistan was a hunter now and hunters used all their
senses.

The men in the camp were
not laughing and joking as one would expect. They had suffered a difficult day,
slogging through the countryside on a fruitless search for a man they believed
could change his features at whim. If Callistan strained his ears he could just
make out low mumbles, but there was no real conversation, and that suggested a
mistrustful and wary atmosphere in the camp. It made sense. They could not
exactly take confidence from their inexperienced leader.

Callistan spat out the
stalk of grass and crept forward. They were in a young forest, lightly
populated with thin, straggly trees. The trees were not dense enough to keep
out the wind: an icy blast from the depths of the Scoldsee that stole the
breath from your lungs. The Missel had situated the camp on a rise, no doubt
reasoning that a hill was a naturally defensible position. Callistan smiled.
They weren’t facing off against an enemy horde, just one man. Did the Missel
know something he did not? No, it was just inexperience. It had probably seemed
like the right idea to the young officer, but it was a foolish, puerile logic.
A raised position was eminently defensible, but it was also visible. Callistan
had been able to follow the party of men with ease and the siting of several fires
on the hilltop gave him a beacon that he could readily avoid.

Or aim for.

Callistan almost felt
sorry for the boy. He had been sent with an overlarge force of city watchmen,
unsuited to long marches and tough conditions, to find one man. If he were with
true soldiers as he should have been, he would have had an experienced vetero
to guide him. Without one, he was a tottering child on shaky legs.

There was no clue as to
the whereabouts of the dogs either. Briefly, panic clutched at his heart as he
imagined the trackers flanking him with their hounds, sneaking up the hill in
the soupy darkness behind him, waiting for the signal to lunge. He shook his
head. That was giving the boy altogether too much credit. The dogs had
disappeared sometime in the afternoon, and it was more likely that they had
simply left or been sent back to Temple. Perhaps the poor Missel had been
forced to let them go or face mutiny. Whatever the case, it made Callistan’s
job easier.

Despite his confidence,
he couldn’t help an occasional glance behind him. The shadows were deep at the
foot of the rise, inky and intimidating. Were he completely alone, Callistan
would have feared that those shadows hid something more monstrous than mere
dogs, but now he told himself that he was the one to be feared.
It is funny,
he thought,
how the mere presence of other humans,
friend or foe, can dispel the power of the night
. He wrapped a gloved hand
around a sapling’s trunk and made to pull himself up the slope. The bark gave
way with a wet crack and he fell forward, quickly flinging out his hands to
steady himself on the forest's thick carpet of wet leaves. He waited. There was
no sound of movement, no cry halloo from the camp, just the sullen near-silence
of miserable men.