Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (19 page)

It crouched awkwardly in
its armour, taking a knee to reach him so that the spiked kneecap pointed its
barb along the ground towards him. It stretched out a terrifyingly long arm,
and the cold metal of its fingertips brushed his forehead and cheek almost
tenderly. He felt himself scream silently in his head but he could do no more,
for he was afraid and the warm blanket had begun to smother his mind, deciding
that he die now so that he might not live to fear again.

A horrible noise someway
between a gong and a crunch echoed through the forest until the mist absorbed
the sound like a sponge. Loster felt sharp pain as the barbed fingers scratched
down across his cheek and he watched the small Guardian topple sideways, its
strange helm caved in at the side like a dented bucket, a small hand axe with a
worn handle buried in the visor. Above the fallen creature stood a woman in a
grey robe. Her face was pink from exertion but her eyes spoke of determination.

“Come, little Lord,” she
said in a voice he had heard before. “We must be away.”

Loster looked up and
found himself grasping the proffered hand with unnecessary force.

It was the woman from
the Great Hall, a member of the Sons of Iss, and she had come to save him.

The leaves were damp and
crunched underfoot, and Loster was sure that they were being too loud. They had
been following the woman called Selene for over a night and a day, keeping well
away from the road, but the dense undergrowth was taking its toll and Aifayne
was growing weaker with every minute. At first, their steps had been dogged by
the sounds of pursuit: strange, haunting horn blasts that frayed the nerves,
accompanied by the shrieks of foul creatures that remained unseen. Selene was
forcing them to move quickly, but if they ever stopped for more than a few
moments of rest, the horns would blast again and they would be forced to flee.

“They’re driving us.”
Selene squatted on her haunches, scratching a crude map into the mud with a
stick. “We’re being herded like cattle.” They were in a small dell that held
the skeletal remains of several birds. Loster thought it might be the home of a
fox or a badger.
Or a lurk
, said an
unhelpful voice in his his mind.

Aifayne moaned and
Loster moved to his side. The old priest was taking this frantic journey
through the forest hard. He sat propped up against a tree, head lolling with
exhaustion. Last night, Selene had shaken them awake while the thin moon was
still high. They had pushed on, suffering the lashes of obstructing branches
and risking turned ankles in the dark. Loster understood her reasoning; she
wasn’t alone in wanting to put some distance between them and their pursuit.
Yet it seemed their efforts had failed: a dawn break a few hours earlier had
been cut abruptly short by the wail of those strange horns, and they had been
forced on once more. It had burned much of what Aifayne had left to give.

Selene finished her map
and grunted. “We’ll be out in the open soon. This forest doesn’t go on
forever.”

“What do we do then?”
asked Loster, weathering the withering glare from the woman in the grey robes.
Aifayne groaned and screwed his eyes so tight that Loster was worried he would
squeeze them into jelly. “Will they catch us?”

“They could have caught
us a dozen times by now.”

A bird whistled nearby
and they both flinched, fearing that the bright warble was a distant horn. “We
can’t keep this up,” Loster said. “Aifayne needs to rest.”

She snorted. “You should
leave him here. It might distract them long enough for us to get away.”

“And go where?” Loster
noted that Selene had said ‘
you
should leave him.’ She had already absolved herself of any responsibility,
making him decide whether or not to leave an old man to an unknown fate.
No,
he thought,
not unknown. Aifayne would die if they left him
. Loster did not
even want to acknowledge her suggestion, lest he start to consider it.

“You know where. This
isn’t the first time we’ve met. You might think nobody saw you on your perch
back in your daddy’s hall, but I did.”

“You were talking to my
father.” He felt as though he were confessing a great secret.

“Ha! As if anybody could
have a conversation with your father. Malix is a fool, and he has upset some
very dangerous people. We’re going to make him pay, with you.”

Loster felt sick. Being
chased by strange soldiers was one thing but the thought of being dragged back
to his father was so much worse. “I don’t have any money,” he said softly.

She laughed. “I’m not a
thief, little Lord.”

“Just a kidnapper,
then.”

She arched an eyebrow.
“Some might call it a rescue.”

“A rescue from the
frying pan, perhaps.”

“Very good, Loster. Do
all of your family have silver tongues? Maybe I should cut it out and see.” She
pulled a fold of her robe aside to show him a long knife on her belt. “You’re
coming with me back to the Widowpeak, and if you so much as think about
running, I’ll use this on your friend here.” Selene stood and began to scuff
out the marks she had made in the dirt. “Pick up the priest. I want to get away
from here before they find us again.”

Night was approaching
and Loster was beginning to think they had lost their pursuit. They hadn’t
heard a horn since dawn, yet still the thought of those tall, grey men was
lodged in his mind like a thorn. Aifayne staggered alongside him, clutching
weakly at his robes for support. The old priest could barely stand and Loster
had taken on the duties of a third limb for him. Aifayne’s craggy face was as
pale as milk and his eyes remained shut for the most part as he blindly
stumbled on at what was a torturous pace even for Loster. They marched on until
the failing light forced them to stop. The moon was little more than a sliver,
and though Selene would not listen to Loster’s protests about Aifayne’s
condition, she accepted that they could not risk being turned around in the
dark and stumbling back into the path of the enemy they had so recently
escaped.

Loster settled
gratefully into a shallow depression between the roots of a gnarled old tree,
while Aifayne simply collapsed where he was. Loster moved over to his tutor and
smoothed the hair back from the old man’s brow. If Aifayne felt his touch he
did not show it.

“You shouldn’t mother
him,” said Selene munching on some treat she had squirrelled away in her robe.

“I’m not mothering him.
He’s sick.”

“He’s
old
. He’ll die soon.” She smacked her
lips as she ate and Loster felt a stab of irritation.

“What do you care if I
look after him?” he snapped.

Selene looked at him and
then swallowed. “Because he’s dead weight. If he can’t keep up then it will
benefit us both if I do him a kindness and cut his throat.”

“I won’t let you,” he
tried to growl but it sounded feeble.

She laughed. “Something
less invasive, then?” She pulled a small phial from deep within her robes. It
held a dark green liquid. “Sweetwater. One drop of this and he’ll never wake
up. We could put it in his water or I could dip my blade in it and—”

“Do all the Sons of Iss
enjoy murdering old men in their sleep?” Loster knew little about Selene’s
shadowy group but he knew they were enemies of the state. It was rumoured that
they had been responsible for the mysterious death of Bellephon Hammerfist, a
great hero of Illis’ rebellion. He had been found dead in his bed. “Aifayne is
of the gods.”

Selene scowled. “Your
gods, not mine. The gods of Respin don’t speak through frail old men.”

“Is that why you’re
hiding in the mountain? He didn’t tell you the Widowpeak was once a Temple Deep
did he?”

She waved a hand.
“Verian superstition. The Black God can’t hurt me.” Loster felt his stomach
clench at the mere mention of the Unnamed. “We’re hiding in the mountain
because we are being hunted. It wasn’t enough for Illis and his plotters to
take our homes, now he wants to try and erase us from history. It pains me that
we have been forced to turn to profiteers like your blighted father. I always
said it would be a poisoned chalice, but we’ll get even. We always do. Ask the
Scourge.”

Loster frowned. Aifayne had told him the story years ago. The Scourge of
Iss, whom Verians called the Helhammer, had been another hero of Illis’
rebellion — the great war fought decades ago. He had beaten the Higard
— the elite of Respin’s military might — again and again, breaking
free of the ambush at Fend where Illis was taken prisoner and returning within
the year to storm the walls of the fortress city and seize back his captive
Empron. Yet his was a soiled legacy. After the ambush at Fend, the Helhammer
had led the remnants of his army through the Heartland mountains, through ice
and snow and winds that could strip a man’s skin from his bones. After weeks of
suffering, they had emerged high above the lush plains of Respin, in sight of
Iss, the City of Innocents. Iss had been known for producing some of the
greatest works of art, music, and literature ever to come out of Daegermund.
The Helhammer’s forces had fallen on it like wolves on lambs and the City of
Innocents had burned and bled.

The Verians had won the
war but they could never shake the stain of Iss.

“Will you kill my
father, as you killed The Hel— the Scourge?” Loster tried not to sound
hopeful.

“That is not up to me.
One death is never good enough for people like him. If the gods are just then
the Scourge is still burning in the fires he started.”

Aifayne moaned in his
sleep and began to cry out, raving in his dementia.

“Shut him up,” said
Selene. “I don’t want to be found again.”

Loster placed a hand on
Aifayne’s brow and recoiled at the heat there. “He needs water.”

“Then go and get some,
but don’t try to run. I’m more than happy to do what you don’t have the
strength to.”

Loster wandered off into
the trees. It was dark with such a small moon, but they had been following a
stream for much of the day and it was not difficult to find the sound again. He
returned to the camp with a skin full of water, save for the few sips he had
taken. When he got there he could see the dark shape of Selene bent over
Aifayne’s still form. Anger swelled in him.

“Get away from him,” he
said in as menacing a tone as he could muster.

She turned to look up at
him and grinned, pulling off her hood to reveal her long black hair. “Relax, I
was just checking on him.” Loster moved to sit alongside Aifayne and Selene
moved away to lean against a bank of leaf-strewn earth. “You really should let
me kill him. He’s not going to leave this place.”

“Shut up,” Loster said
with feeling, and she laughed once, then settled down to sleep, pulling her
robe about her as a blanket. Loster looked down at the priest. They should have
been in Temple by now, safe in the chambers of a Temple Dawn. Now that he was
asleep, Aifayne looked peaceful. The lines on his face were smoothed out and
the trouble in his rheumy eyes was hidden, but so too was his wisdom, and
Loster needed that now. He wanted to wake the old priest but Aifayne was far
away, and wherever that was, he would likely stay there, just like Selene said.

Loster looked over at
the dark shadow where the Daughter of Iss slept with ease, just another log in
the forest. He felt a tugging sensation in his skull and laid down next to
Aifayne. If he was lucky, he would be able to fall asleep before the pain got
too much and pulled him into a restless oblivion.

Loster woke to a finger
on his lips and he opened his eyes to see Selene’s pinched face hovering above
his. She jerked her head over her shoulder and moved away, waiting for him to
sit up and follow her. It was dark and quiet, yet Loster had a feeling of dread
he could not shake. He rolled to his feet and looked around, half expecting to
see a stone altar and the ghost of his brother.
No, you’re not dreaming. This is real.

“Loster!” Selene hissed
impatiently and beckoned for him to come with her. Loster looked down at
Aifayne. The priest was as still as if he were in his tomb. “Leave the priest,
we’ll come back for him.”

Reluctantly, Loster
followed her into the trees. She stepped lightly, avoiding anything steeped in
shadow and keeping to firm, clear ground. He tried to match her steps but
realised before long that he was falling behind. He cursed softly and quickened
his pace.

“Where are we going?”

“Quiet! I heard
something earlier. It went this way.”

“But what if it’s them?”

“Then we go the other
way. Now be quiet.”

They crept on through
the forest, pausing every now and again to listen. However, it seemed that
whatever Selene had heard — be it one of those tall warriors or simply a
woodland creature — was long gone. Loster had no idea of the time but
soon he could make out more details: leaves stirring in the gentle breeze, pale
scars on the skirts of trees where larger animals had scratched the bark away.
Above, the milky blue light of dawn was beginning to spill into the sky.

“We need to get back,”
he kept his voice low. “If Aifayne wakes up he’ll panic.”

Selene did not respond,
so he poked her in the back. She slapped his hand away and hissed for him to be
quiet. “Listen.”

Loster strained his
ears.
There! A whimper nearby.
“What
is it?” he asked.

Selene shook her head
and pointed through the trees ahead. He followed her outstretched arm. There
was something in a clearing close by, and as he squinted to make out more, it
moved. They crawled through the forest, keeping low until they came close
enough to see what the shape was.

It was a horse lying on
its side, and as they approached, it whinnied pitifully, blowing a great plume
of breath into the frosty air.

“I’ve seen this horse
before,” said Loster. “There was a merchant back on the road with the others.
He left with his family.”

“They didn’t get far.”
Selene knelt and laid a hand on the beast’s flank. Its coat was stained with
old blood and fresh blood, seeping from a dozen lacerations and one deep
puncture wound that bubbled with pink foam. The horse whimpered again and Selene
drew her knife, placing the tip on the great pulsing vein that ran like a rope
down the horse’s neck. Loster turned away and tried not to gag as the bitter
tang of blood assaulted his nostrils. There was a brief flurry of activity and
then silence, broken only by the creaking of Selene’s knees as she stood and
slotted her knife back into its sheath. “Come. Let’s get back to the priest.”