Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (16 page)

Callistan breathed out
slowly and glared at the small tree that had betrayed him. It was largely
rotten and the bark had slewed off of it like old meat off bone to leave a pale
scar of dying yellow wood underneath. The wet leaves on the ground had
blanketed his fall. Once again, the rains had saved him.

He calmed his breathing
and began to crawl up the slope on hands and knees, using the knots and bumps
in the landscape for support rather than any of the untrustworthy trees. He
stopped some distance from the fires at the top and began to work his way along
the spine of the ridge. If he could get up to the same level as his pursuers,
he could better plan how to approach them.

After a while he judged
that he was far enough away from the camp to afford a little noise. He broke
into a run and moved quickly up to the narrow path that topped the ridge. The
Missel had placed his camp poorly, he knew, but it was only now that he could
see it in full that he knew how poorly. The ridge ran in a thin ribbon towards
a large, teardrop-shaped plateau, upon which sat the camp. To either side the
ground fell away into darkness. Callistan shook his head. It was as though the
Missel was planning to lead his men in a final stand against overwhelming
force. There could be no orderly retreat from this position, not if the path
was taken. That presented Callistan with a problem. The horse was over on the
other side of the plateau, and once he had freed it, he would have to ride it
back through the middle of the camp if he did not want to face a perilous slide
down the slope in the dark.

Options
. Sometimes
it was better not to have them
.

The camp was arranged
around two large fires that burned brightly, casting orange light on to the men
nearby. Most were sleeping, though some still sat in the glow, hugging their knees
and talking in low tones or staring dumbly at the dancers in the flames.
Callistan crept closer, careful to tread softly and avoid any loose twigs or
other noisome detritus. He wasn’t afraid of being seen — there were no
pickets and the fire would have made the men night-blind — but the forest
was quiet and even a tired man’s ears were sharp. He did a quick head count.
Yes, they were all in sight, except for their officer, though Callistan was
sure he knew where to find him. What had looked like a tent from below was
indeed a tent, dun leather pitched in a peak. Callistan grimaced. It was a poor
officer that secured his comforts over those of his men.

There was no way for him
to make it through the camp unseen. He would have to skirt the fringes like a
lurk from a children’s story, creeping around in the shadows and stealing
little ones away in a flash. But he wouldn’t be carrying off a scared child; he
would be trying to steal a powerful war horse of some eighteen hands. By now
the beast was probably rested and nuzzling contentedly on a feed bag of
wholesome grain. It would be anticipating a quiet night and would not make
things easy for him.

Callistan crouched by a
tree and unslung the falcata from around his shoulder. It was a long blade and
would cause him trouble on the steep slope. It would be better used as a
support, like an old man uses a staff. It would ruin the leather scabbard but,
as Hapal had said, it was just a tool. There was no point worrying about such
things. Callistan gripped the warm leather in one hand and used it to test the
ground in front of him. He would need to be careful: the wet leaves and slick
mud made for treacherous footing. He grunted softly. It irked him to ruin a
good scabbard, and the leather was sinking about a finger’s length into the mud
every time he leant on it. He grimaced.
No
matter. It’s the blade that counts, not the sheath.

It took him over an hour
but finally he was in position below the crest. He could hear the horse’s
contented whinnying, since now there was even less noise from the camp. It
seemed that even the grumblers had retreated to their bedrolls, leaving all
else unguarded. Callistan slowly poked his head above the lip of the rise. To
his left was the Missel’s tent, and though the leather flaps were pinned back
with knotted rope, there was no sign of movement from inside. Callistan laid
down on his belly and crawled forward, cradling his sword in his arms like a
child. The horse was to his right, close enough for the Missel’s convenience
but not so close that the horse might disturb its rider's sleep. Ahead was the
camp, and Callistan could not help but marvel at the complacency.

Not a single man was
awake. Callistan had crawled so that any sharp-eyed watchman would not see him
creeping around; now he could see that he had overestimated his adversaries.
Had he waited back on the path, he could have walked right through the centre
of the camp unhindered. There weren’t even any spits strung or kettles heating.
This was a miserable camp and its miserable collection of miserable men had
fallen asleep fast so that dawn might bring brighter prospects.

Callistan stood and
strode to the horse. It was dozing and turned its head at the disturbance, but
he cupped its muzzle gently in one hand and whispered soothing words in its
ear. The horse whickered softly and brushed rubbery lips at his hand, searching
for a treat. He patted its broad flank, freeing dust from its brown coat, and
breathed in that comforting, horsey smell. He slotted his falcata in the loops
reserved for the Missel’s shiny sword.

“Is something the matter
with Crucio?” asked a youthful, cultured voice.

Callistan froze. He had
thought everybody asleep but he must have misjudged. From the tone and the
clipped coolness, he knew it was the Missel speaking. His mind raced. From what
he had seen, the young officer was afraid of the rough men he led and that
would be his best defence. “Not especially, sir,” he said, lowering his voice
and affecting a lazy drawl. It would not suit if he spoke like the Lord of
Blackwatch.

The Missel paused,
unsure of how to respond to Callistan’s surliness. “Did you check his hooves?
He seemed to be lagging a bit on the way up here.”

Callistan frowned. He
needed the horse to be fit or else it would be no use to him. He edged along
the horse’s flank and gently lifted the its rear leg, careful not to turn his
head towards the Missel. The hoof seemed fine so he made a quick cursory check
of the other three, trying to keep the horse between him and the officer as
much as possible. ‘Nothing wrong, s’far as I can see, sir,” he said.

The Missel nodded and
followed Callistan around the other side of the horse. He peered at Callistan
in the darkness and Callistan quickly ducked behind the horse’s rump, making a
show of inspecting the tail that had been braided and docked in the military
fashion.

“You are not Warrig,”
said the Missel, and Callistan braced himself for action. “Tell me, is he
sleeping?” Callistan sighed with audible relief but it must have sounded like
annoyance to the Missel, for he took a step back, and when he spoke, his voice
was apologetic. “Forgive me. I did not mean to sound so accusing. Who are you?
Are you one of the trackers? I don’t know everybody’s name yet.”

Callistan turned and
smiled. The Missel was indeed young and had an open, innocent face, but he was
still an enemy. Callistan’s smile became a grin. The poor bastard did not even
know his own men’s faces.

The Missel grinned back,
probably thinking he had made some jest he was unaware of.

Callistan took a step forward,
still grinning from ear to ear like a simpleton. The Missel was standing a few
paces away, smiling sheepishly. Behind him was a steep drop into darkness.
Callistan took another step forward and the Missel’s smile began to fray at the
edges.

“Your name? I didn’t
catch it earlier. There’s been so much to do.”

Callistan took yet
another step and the Missel’s smile crumbled into a frown. The young officer
felt for the jewelled toy he usually wore at his waist but it was not there. He
must have left it in his tent. His expression turned to utter panic and he
opened his mouth to shout a warning. Callistan leapt forward to clap a hand
over his mouth and punched him solidly in the gut. The Missel doubled over with
a whoosh as the air rushed out of his lungs. Callistan grabbed him by the loose
fabric of his tunic and thrust him backwards, letting go as he fell. The Missel
disappeared into the darkness, limbs flailing. He made a heaving sound as he
tumbled away, desperate to suck in some air to warn the others.

Callistan moved like
lightning, yanking out the peg that tethered Crucio to the ground and hauling
himself into the saddle. The horse should have been unsaddled and brushed down
for the night, but the gods were finally turning their favour on him, and the
Missel’s ineptitude was serving to make his escape easier. He kicked the horse
into action and Crucio sprung to the task with a startled expulsion off air
that steamed in the frigid night air like a hellish bellows. He galloped
through the camp and wheeled the horse around bleary-eyed men scrambling from
their bedrolls. As Callistan rode past the fire, Crucio's hooves kicked loose a
stray log in an explosion of violent orange sparks that caught a bedroll and
began to smoulder. He passed the last watchman and pushed on into the night,
sure he could make out the frustrated screams of the Missel rolling up the hill
behind him.

Callistan rode all
night, as fast as the horse could carry him, though he knew he did not need to.
This was the only horse he had seen amongst his pursuers. As long as they were
the only ones after him, there was no way they could catch him now.
Nevertheless, he rode hard because it made him feel alive. He knew
instinctively that it was dangerous for a horseman to travel so fast at night —
all it would take was a rabbit hole or a tangled root to trip the horse and
send him tumbling headfirst into the hard ground — but he could not care
less. This was what he did and it felt wonderfully familiar, like nothing else
had until this moment.

He rode until dawn broke
over the horizon and the dew steamed from the earth. To the north, he thought
that he could make out the distant tops of towers built of dark stone. That
must be Blackwatch, where he was Lord and master, Herald of the Greatseat. But
he was not headed there. His family was elsewhere.

He turned south, relying
on Hapal’s hurried instructions to find his way. He rode out of the forest and
through fields, over hills and through valleys, through streams and past
farmsteads, where startled workers scattered out of his way. He rode until the
great horse beneath him heaved and blew, until sweat had soaked its dark mane
and foam flecked the corners of its mouth, until finally, after steeping a
gentle fold in the land, he curbed his mount above a large and low stone house
that sprawled next to a wide stream of silver-blue. Smoke rose lazily from the
chimney, and the sun painted the fields around in vibrant tones of green and
yellow, stippled here and there with myriad blues and reds and purples as
flowers stretched towards the warmth like basking cats.

Home.
He
did not know how he knew but he knew and that was enough. It was the country
house that Hapal had mentioned, and suddenly a red-haired woman with a dark
green skirt and a white shirt appeared from behind the house. She froze when
she saw the horseman on the hill and raised a hand to shield the glare from her
eyes. Callistan’s heart soared, for he had made it and he was not too late.

The red-haired woman
called out to somebody behind her and her voice was like music. Crucio snorted
softly, as if eager to join in, so Callistan breathed deep and tapped the
horse’s flanks with his heels.

He rode down the hill
and went to see his family.

Riella wrinkled her
nose. The room smelt stale and musty and had not been aired in a long time. The
two small windows were locked and bolted and had their shutters drawn across,
so that the only light in the room was the glow from the fire. It was freezing
outside but the air felt oppressive in here and it was making her feel sick.
She reached up and unbound the scarf from around her face. Despite the heat,
she could feel the sweat cooling on her neck. Pulling down her hood, she freed
her long blonde hair from its ties, shaking it loose in a torrent of gold. Riella
took in her surroundings. It was a large room that took up fully half the width
of the building. Against one wall there was a large double bed carved out of a
dark wood. It was covered in several wolf pelts and had four large posts, one
at each corner. Curiously it looked like it had not been slept in, or even on.
Instead there was a small pile of worn furs scattered in front of the hearth.

Riella sighed heavily
and removed her cloak. The heat was starting to get to her but she knew there
was another reason why she felt so uncomfortable. Had she made a bad decision?
She needed to get to Kressel desperately, but as much as she could handle
herself, she knew the routes to the second city were not to be walked alone.
There were highwaymen everywhere, and worse if certain rumours were to be
believed.

The large man
downstairs, the woodsman, seemed like he was one of the good ones, but once
they were alone he could easily change.
Maybe
that’s why he had been wearing that mask,
she thought.
Maybe it’s how he hides his true nature.

Riella unlatched the
wooden shutters and flung them outwards into the cool air. She gasped as it
rushed into the room. It stole her breath from her but it immediately made her
nausea subside.

“Are you always so fond
of the cold?” asked that gruff voice. Riella turned quickly to face the
woodsman. She had not heard him enter the room. “I can sneak too, girl,” he
said, the merest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Riella turned back to
face out the window and rob him of any satisfaction at her shock. He did not
move for a while and then joined her. Now that he did not mind being heard, his
tread was heavy and imposing and she could feel the floorboards bow slightly
under the weight of him. He stood an arm’s length from her and breathed deeply
of the mountain air. Riella did not turn her head, but out of the corner of her
eye she could see his broad, fur and leather clad chest rise and fall. She took
a breath of her own and inhaled the scent of him: warm animal hides and the
smoky, sweaty smell of fur. It was comforting in a way that the smell of other
men was not — usually when they were near her they stank of stale wine,
vomit, and oily lust.

“You still haven’t told
me your name,” she said, trying and failing to keep naked interest from her
voice.

The woodsman turned his
head towards her, as if noticing her for the first time. “And it is still no
business of yours,” he said. “What takes you to Kressel?” he continued in a
clumsy attempt to distract her.

She smiled faintly but
decided she had nothing to hide.
Let him
have his games,
she thought.
I am
through with games
. “I mean to join the Temple Dawn.”

“Not the Temple
Blossom?” he asked. She glared at the side of his head but there was no trace
of mockery in his voice.

“No,” she said, “not a
red temple. I have paid my penance to the Goddess of Love.”

He snorted with laughter
and a plume of frosted air shot from his nostrils like dragon smoke. “Love is
one name for it.”

“And what would you know
of it?” she snapped. Fury had come upon her like a sudden storm and she wanted
to rage at this vast and intimidating man. “Do you have no lusts for women? I
suppose it makes sense,” she sneered, “the old ones always struggled to get it
up.”

His face darkened with
anger. “Be careful.”

“Perhaps you’re into
boys?” she said mock-sweetly. “There were always one or two pederasts—”

“Enough!” he roared and
she fell silent, stunned by his ferocity. She suddenly felt an overwhelming
urge to retreat and so hurried over to the other side of the room, putting the
bed between him and her and busying herself with arranging the fallen furs by
the fire. The woodsman stood like a great furry statue for some time,
silhouetted against the bright window. Finally he turned, and when he did his
face was softer. He sighed audibly and shrugged his bearskin from his
shoulders, carefully wrapping it and laying it upon the pelts on the bed. She
tried not to watch him as he sat down, the bed groaning in protest at his bulk.

“My name is Beccorban,”
he said so softly that, for a second, she thought she had imagined it. The name
tugged at her memory like an insistent child, but fear had caused her wits to
flee momentarily — though she recognised the peace offering as it was
intended. “I would ask that you keep that name to yourself.” He turned and
looked at her intensely with eyes the colour of winter. “It means many
different things to many different people and few of those things are good.”

Riella nodded and
Beccorban — where had she heard that name? — turned back to his
solace.

The cool air had robbed
the room of its stifling atmosphere, but Riella was close to the fire and it
was making her skin feel sore. She gathered the worn furs in a pile at her feet
and stole a pillow from the bed, plumping it and laying it at the head of the
assorted wolfskins to form a makeshift bed.

“Not there, girl,” said
Beccorban.

She frowned. “What’s
wrong with here?”

“It’s in the middle of
the room. I would prefer it if my back was against something solid.” He
pointed. “Maybe the wall under the window.”

Riella cocked an
eyebrow. “But you’ll be cold.”

“I’ve been cold before,”
he said bluntly.

Riella paused and then
obediently began to ferry the furs over to the space beneath the solitary
window. She closed the shutters again and latched them, satisfied that the air
was a bit more breathable now. When she had finished, she rapped a knuckle on
the timber wall. “Something solid,” she said. “Are you expecting trouble?”

“Aren’t you?”

Riella pursed her lips,
caught out by his question. “From those soldiers? I wasn’t really, no.”

Beccorban grimaced as
though he had swallowed something sour and waved a hand vigorously. “Those
weren’t soldiers, just boys in armour, but you can bet they’re not alone.” He
spread his hands. “If there are more of them, they won’t be far away, and maybe
they will be better than unblooded fools.”

Riella caught herself
playing with her sleeve and stopped. “You think that more of them will come to
Wort?"

“It’s the only place out
here and some might want a rest, a warm bed, and a belly full of ale. If these
idiots have friends, it would be best to be alert. It’s always best to be
alert. After all, they did say they were looking for someone. How many people
can you catch with four men?”

“They were searching for
you.”

He nodded. “And they’ve
found me. Others will too.”

“I thought you killed
the others.”

“Some of them, yes,” he
said, and when he did not continue, Riella went on.

“Why not leave now?”

He smiled ruefully.
“Because old men need rest sometimes.”

Riella looked at her feet.
“I’m sorry I mocked you. It was rude of me.”

Beccorban laughed. “I
am
old, older than you, older than I was
yesterday, and tomorrow I shall be older still. Now,” he said, leaning
backwards, “I’m going to shut my eyes for a bit. I’ll move later and you can
have the bed back, but I’d forgotten how seductive a feather mattress can be.”

Riella smiled to
herself, sure that he could not see her.
He
is not that old,
she thought,
more
like a man leaving his prime rather than wallowing in frail dotage
. His
legs were as wide as tree trunks and gave way to a waist that was at once thick
and narrow: thick with the promise of strength but lean, with no fat on the
hips. Beccorban folded his great arms across his powerful chest, and though
they were mostly covered by the sleeves of his jerkin, she could see the scars
that criss-crossed his hands in a spider’s web of forgotten injuries.

A warrior. Yet another
causal killer in a world full of them. She had known killers, men who came to
her with another’s blood still wet on them. It was an old wisdom, after all,
was it not?
Nothing like a good fuck
after some bloodletting.

A shadow flitted across
her vision as she thought again of her last customer, his shifty eyes, his
greasy hair, the intimidating weight of him. She could still taste the salty
blood that had spilled on to her lips from his open mouth as she stabbed him in
the throat. She shuddered at the memory of the way the blade had grated against
the cartilage of his windpipe, that horrid sucking sound as he had fought to
breathe past the steel. He had deserved it, though. He would have taken by
force what he could have had for a fair price. It had happened to many of the
other girls; some even wore it as a badge of honour, a rite of passage. She
thought again of her friend whose name she had taken for her weapon. What they
had done to her… Riella would not face that indignity.
The bastards,
she thought, staring at the man on the bed.
The arrogant, swaggering bastards.

Riella felt her cheeks
flush and touched the tips of her fingers to them to feel the heat.
No, not him
. She busied herself with
cleaning the room, though a voice in her head still whispered poisonous
thoughts:
they are all the same, Riella.
Give him but a chance and he will take it.
Despite herself, Riella felt for
the thin stiletto — the true Esha — strapped against her thigh.
Just in case
. “It’s always best to be
alert,” he had said.

A noise like thunder
made her jump, and then, with a soft chuckle, she realised it was Beccorban
snoring. His chest rose and then fell in shallow breaths as deep sleep took
him.
He must be exhausted,
she
thought. The sudden violence in the taproom downstairs had shocked her, but it
had also left her feeling tired and hungry, and she had barely been involved.
What must he feel like?
Riella knew she
should try and rest, but the cool air had pinned her eyes open, and though she
knew she was low on energy, her muscles were still taut with adrenaline,
straining to be released.

Beccorban sighed
contentedly in his sleep and rolled on to his furled bearskin cloak like a
protective parent snuggling up to a child
.
Bec-cor-ban
. A strange name, an older name that you rarely heard any more.
Funny how names fall in and out of fashion,
thought
Riella. He had asked her to keep it a secret. Certainly nobody else knew it
— the tavern owner had called him only ‘woodsman.’ What dangers did that
name carry with it?

If what Beccorban had
said was true, he had placed a great deal of trust in her, a stranger.
Maybe he thinks it will get you into his bed
.
No, he had been reaching out, touching another human being with his
vulnerability. She bit down a smile. Vulnerable was probably a word that had
not been used much before when describing Beccorban. She studied his face: the
strong chin behind a jutting black beard, flecked with the grey of old steel;
the large once-straight nose, broken and reset a dozen times; the scar below
his right eye — something had cut deep there, he was lucky to still have
control of the muscles. As she watched him, he twitched and then frowned, those
great brows knitting together in a ridged tangle of leathery flesh.
What worries you, woodsman?

Beccorban rolled over
again but this time he had caught the bearskin in a tangle between his legs,
and as he moved he carried it with him, revealing a sliver of wood the colour
of dried blood underneath.

Riella blinked. He
was
hiding something. Though he was a
perfect stranger, she felt oddly betrayed. Carefully she crept towards the bed,
flitting her gaze between the wood and the slumbering giant that guarded it.
A weapon, surely? It must be a weapon
.
She reached the edge of the bed, and with one hand out to steady herself,
reached under the black fur of the cloak. She closed her hand around the oiled
wood and marvelled at the warmth of it. It was as though it was alive, coursing
with a hot energy all its own, as if she held part of Beccorban himself. She
conjured an image to her mind and blushed at the thought.
Snap out of it!

It was a handle, about
the thickness of a child’s wrist and definitely made of an exotic wood. Gently
she began to tug it towards her, trying to free it from the jealous clutches of
the bearskin. As she pulled, Riella could see more and more that it was indeed
a weapon. Fully an arm’s length of the shaft was free now, including a section
of hardened leather that had been wrapped around the middle. Though the end was
still hidden, she could feel the weight of it already and knew that some of
that weight was the burden of the lives it had taken.