Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (22 page)

Not
men.
He had seen men do similar or worse to their own kind but the armless man
provided him with a simple height comparison that fed his unease. For it
confirmed what he had come to suspect. He was suddenly remembering a very tall
man in a clearing in the forest, a mournful face with pale blue skin, high
cheekbones, red-tinted eyes, and sharply pointed ears. What had the stranger
said? “
Run, for they are coming…
”

It seemed they were
already here.

A great restless terror
awoke behind Becorban’s eyes and he felt sick. If these soldiers were an
invasion force, then what would become of Veria, his home?
No
, he thought,
not just
Veria. The world of men
.

And it had begun with
Kressel.

Beccorban looked behind
him to check that Riella was keeping up. She trudged along, head down and arms
folded protectively against the cold. He had no comfort to offer her. If his
fears were founded, then the gods only knew what fate awaited them. He spat.
The gods have abandoned us. They did long
ago.

A smell carried to them
on the salt breeze from the sea. It was a rank, fetid smell, laced with the
acrid tang of smoke. It was a smell Beccorban knew well, but Riella did not and
it made her gag. He shushed her too harshly and crested a fold in the land,
grabbing a handful of the insipid grass to haul himself up. He crouched so as
not to silhouette himself against the bright sky and looked upon the ruin of an
Empire.

In all of Daegermund
there was no city like Kressel. On the shore sat the Outer Fortress, famed for
its high Land Walls. Yet this was only the doorway, for the main city lay on an
island that emerged like a grey-green kraken from the steel-grey waters of the
Scoldsee. It was joined to the Outer Fortress on the mainland by the Long
Bridge, a thin stretch of white stone supported by huge legs of the same colour
that grew from beneath the waves in great pointed arches. But Kressel’s greatest
and most famous feature were its huge Sea Walls. They were curved on the
landward side, but on the sides that faced the water, they raced to meet each
other in a point as sharp as the prow of a ship. However, on the southern side,
the wall had a longer race to run, bowing out in a great encircling arm that
encompassed the entrance to the main harbour. The wall was broken up at regular
intervals by tall cylindrical towers that kept watch on the implacable sea.
Kressel had always been a marvel to behold, but now she was broken.

The Outer Fortress
looked more or less untouched, as did the Long Bridge, but behind the Sea Walls
of the main city there lay a pall of dark vapour from the hundreds of fires
burning within. Beccorban felt his mouth go dry as he saw that the great
Harbour Wall of the main city, unbreached for three hundred years, lay sundered
and half fallen into the sea, so that the iron-coloured waters crashed against
the white stone with a rhythmic boom. Even this far from the city, he could
hear the screams and other less than human sounds. They had been marching
towards the burning city for days, but Kressel was vast: a sprawling mass of
stone anchored to the eastern shores of Veria. A sack could last for weeks if
unchecked.

Beccorban had forgotten about
Riella, but looked at her now as she gasped in horror and covered her mouth
with her hands. “Come, we must not be seen here,” he said and made to slip back
behind the fold in the land. He followed the line of the ridge upon which they
stood and saw how it grew westwards and then north before dipping back into the
flat landscape under a blanket of trees. If he could use its bulk as a screen,
they might be able to skirt the city and come out someplace north of it by
nightfall. It was their only option. Night’s darkness would not visit the open
ground before the walls until the fires inside the city were quenched.

“No, wait,” she said and
he turned in surprise as she tugged on his elbow and pointed.

Kressel’s Outer Fortress
had two gates, and the southernmost, known as the Wandering Gate, lay cracked
and leaning drunkenly on iron hinges that some unholy fire had twisted out of
shape. As Beccorban watched, three small figures — mere specks at this
distance — broke from cover and ran out on to the patchy grass that
ringed the city.

“They’re not soldiers,”
said Riella.

“No, lass.” He watched
them move towards the trees west of the city. It was clear they were running
but they had too much ground to cover and their progress over the sandy ground
seemed agonisingly slow. Beccorban stood with Riella, transfixed by the little
drama playing out below then. She breathed in sharply.

“Oh no,” she pointed,
and Beccorban, conscious that they were not exactly hidden, followed her gaze
nonetheless.

From the shattered Wandering
Gate rode one of the tall soldiers that he had seen on the coast road. The
soldier was armoured like a knight, as the others had been, except atop his
helm there were several long metal protrusions that resembled the antlers of a
proud stag. He was too far away to make out specific details, but from the
casual arrogance of the way he trotted forward, his intentions were clear.
However, strangest of all was what he rode. Beccorban had never seen anything
like it: the creature was very long and low to the ground like a lizard, yet
its body was feathered, with a vicious looking tail at one end and the
long-necked head of a giant bird, complete with a cruel, hooked beak, on the
other.

“What in gods’ name…”
Riella began but she didn’t finish, for the knight kicked his mount into a
canter and began to close on the three small figures. “Do you think
they’ll—”

“Don’t watch,” said
Beccorban harshly, for he had a soldier’s knowledge and knew that cavalry,
however oddly mounted, could eat up distance in the blink of an eye. He tried
to pull her away from the crest but she fought him and he turned away. He had
seen how this played out many times before.

A shriek cut across the
plain and Beccorban resisted the urge to cover his ears. It was a horrible
sound that plucked at the nerves and ran cold fingers up his spine. He thought
that the strange bird creature had made it but could not be certain. Despite
himself he turned back to the action. The runners on the plain had seen their
pursuer and somehow doubled their pace. They were close to the dense trees now
and Riella said in a hopeful voice, “They’re going to make it!”

Maybe
they will,
he thought, then cold logic seeped back into his brain and he knew that even if
they did it would not matter. If Kressel had fallen then the whole coastline
was open. It was a matter of time.

As if at a signal, a
column of eerily tall soldiers broke from the trees to the west. They marched
in perfect formation, stalking towards the city on long legs. Behind them came
a disordered mass of humanity driven forward by more soldiers.
Prisoners
, he thought, being led back to
the second city for a purpose he did not want to imagine.

Riella raised her hand
to her mouth and chewed nervously on her fingertips. Upon seeing his comrades,
the antler-helmed soldier on the bird-lizard slowed his pace, as if to toy with
his victims.

“We have to help them!”
cried Riella, and Beccorban hissed at her to be quiet. They were not far enough
away to speak so carelessly, although if Antler Helm had heard them, he showed
no sign of it. Instead he and his feathered creature were intent on their prey.

The lead runner was a
hundred paces or so from the illusory safety of the trees when he saw the
column of soldiers. He froze in his tracks and his companions bumped into him;
one of them went sprawling.

“Look away now, lass,”
said Beccorban. “This is the bad part.” Riella ignored him but her eyes began
to glaze with moisture.

Antler Helm snapped a
harsh command in a deep, musical language that carried even to their hiding
place. In response the strange, feathered lizard bunched its muscles and leapt,
unfolding long but narrow wings that had previously lain unseen, flattened
against its back. The wings gave it just enough lift to close on the lead
runner in a few short beats. Its beak clamped on to his head and they heard the
pop as his skull shattered. The other two were finished in short, bloody order,
and the creature began to feast on their broken flesh as the column led the
prisoners past. Beccorban swore and dragged a stunned Riella back over the
ridge. He let her sit down and rest in the grass, although he knew they needed
to be on their way soon. The second city was dead and it would suit them best
to be clear of it as quickly as they could.

Riella did not speak for
a long time and when she did it was only a whisper. “I thought they would make
it,” she said.

“So did I,” he lied.

“We have to help them.”

“Who, the prisoners? No,
Riella. That’s madness.”

“You’d let them die?”
she stared up at him with accusing eyes.

“It’s not my
responsibility.”

She spat between his
feet and he rocked backwards in shock. She stood and shouldered past him to
stand carelessly on the ridge. Beccorban sighed and went to join her and watch
the grisly procession below. The last few miserable captives were being herded
through the broken Wandering Gate. Of Antler Helm there was no sign.

“I came to see the
Temple Dawn,” Riella said defiantly, wiping tears from her eyes.

Beccorban nodded. “Then
I shall take you there.” He tried to pick out the golden dome amongst the
distant flames.
Maybe there is something
to be done in Kressel,
he thought, and as he tried to convince himself, he
felt the hammer on his back sing with joy.

“I do understand, my
love, I just can’t see why we have to go now.” Raiya turned and walked to the
room’s one long glass window. It was a rare thing, plate glass, and though it
was cloudy around the edges, Callistan thought that he had probably paid a
great deal for it. “Why would they care where you are? You’re nowhere near
Temple now.”

Callistan stood up from
his chair, which creaked with relief as he took his weight off of it, and
crossed to his wife in three short steps. He placed a hand behind her neck and
pulled her into his chest, bending his neck to kiss the fiery crown of her
hair. He breathed in her smell. It did not fill him with memories as he thought
it would but it was comforting: a hot, rich smell of cleanliness and washed
skin scented with cloves. “They care because I know things that I shouldn’t,”
he said. She looked up at him, unimpressed, so he continued. “There is a man
out there who stole my face and took my memory, Raiya. He’ll hunt me to the
edges of Daegermund if he thinks I can ruin his plans.” Callistan did not think
that the slipskin had anything to do with his memory loss but his wife was
taking more convincing than he had anticipated and it could only serve to
strengthen his argument. “I don’t know who else is helping him. They could be
on their way here, now.”

Raiya twisted and broke
from his grip, turning away and burying her face in her hands. “But why?! Why
you? It’s horrible! How can somebody wear another person’s face?”

Callistan shook his
head. “I don’t know.” He paused. “He wasn’t entirely human.”

Raiya looked at him
sharply and then went back to sobbing. “How can this be happening to us? You’ve
only just got back and now… now this.”

“I wish I had answers
for you,” said Callistan meekly, “but we can’t be here for much longer. We have
to leave, all of us together.” He made to reach out for his wife and then
stopped himself. She had been colder than he had expected since his return but
that was not wholly strange. After all, he had been gone for months — so
she had told him. Now he had swept back into her life to tell her that they
must abandon everything and flee north for he knew not how long.

Raiya fled from the room
without a sound and left him alone. Callistan scratched the back of his head
and went outside into the weak afternoon sunlight. He stepped on to the large
flagstones of the yard, cool now after the passing of the sun. Crucio was
hitched to a low rail nearby and the beast raised his head in mute inquisition
as his new owner appeared. Callistan smiled and walked to him, patting the
horse’s broad chest and tickling behind one large ear. This was an expensive
creature, bred for war. It had been good fortune to come by him. Callistan
knelt by a deep stone trough and dipped a hand into the silvery water, watching
the liquid sparkle as it fell through his fingers. Crucio whickered and stepped
forward to lap noisily from the trough.

Sometimes it felt as if
he would never regain his life, could never go back to who and what he had
been. Maybe he was being foolish but he had expected things to be different
with Raiya. It had been his secret hope that she would fall into his arms and
there melt like butter, would kiss his lips and caress his face and soothe his
troubles away, make him feel like a husband again, like a man. She was as
beautiful as he wished he could remember: red hair like burnt bronze and high
cheekbones that looked sharp enough to wound but from which hung a smile of
dazzling power. The fleeting Raiya of his memory was always smiling and
laughing. Not so in reality.

This morning, she had
run from the tall horseman with dark blonde hair, and Callistan had not known
what to do. Confused, he had dismounted and waited dumbly on the cropped grass
in front of the main house until a servant appeared. The servant was a
middle-aged woman named Cyna, who seemed delighted to see him. He apologised
for not recognising her and he had to ask her name twice, but she laughed and
waved away his contrition as if it were smoke on the wind. Callistan had
decided that he liked Cyna, but she could not help him with Raiya. That was up
to him alone.

Eventually he had found
his wife in a large bedroom, probably the sleeping chamber they shared
together. It was a low-ceilinged room with walls of pale yellow wood and a
stone floor topped with reeds. This was a place that would keep the heat in
during the long winters and wet springs. When he entered, Raiya had been hiding
behind the bed. She stood abruptly and then, after staring for a moment,
covered her face with her hands and tried to run past him. Callistan caught her
around the waist and held her until her trembling stopped and she looked up at
him, lips drawn in a thin line. She reached out and touched his face, tugging
softly on the flesh of his cheek as if to check that he was not some
apparition.

And yet now she had fled
from him again. Why so cold and aloof? Did she have another man? No, that
thought was unworthy of him.

Crucio nuzzled his
shoulder, nibbling at the fresh white tunic he had donned, and Callistan
laughed impulsively, stroking the huge beast’s neck. The sun had burned down to
embers and there was a hard line between the amber light and the grey shadow
crawling across the stone floor of the yard. Callistan frowned. He would have
liked to be away by nightfall, and night came early at this time of year. He
did not know how far his pursuers were behind him but he knew they must surely
be coming. He stood and marched back towards the house. Where was the damned
woman? He needed to get some sense from her. There wasn’t much time. He strode
through the door, back into the relative gloom of the dining area. The large
wooden table that dominated the room was mournful and empty; the surface was
scarred and shiny in places where elbows and forearms had rubbed it smooth.
Callistan absently brushed his fingers across the wood as he walked past,
wishing that touch could transfer the memories of the moments the wood had
witnessed.

He crossed a wide
threshold into a dim hall and cursed as he slipped on something hard. Looking
down he saw a small wooden horse, hand-carved and gaily painted. He knelt down
and picked up the toy. It was split in a seam across its back where he had
stepped on it and the russet-brown paint had rubbed off its face entirely,
leaving a streak across the stone floor that looked too much like blood.
Callistan thought of Crucio and felt oddly guilty.

Cold apprehension
trickled into his gut as he thought of his children, Farilion and Mela. Where
were they? He had been so caught up in his wife’s strange behaviour that he had
put all thought of his children from his mind. He crossed the hall to a doorway
that opened into a small room. There were toys scattered everywhere but no sign
of their owners. Callistan placed the broken horse in a pocket of his borrowed
tunic and crouched to inspect the other discarded playthings. There was a
knight on horseback, fashioned from a soft grey metal; a cup and ball game,
connected by a thin piece of fraying string; and two wooden sticks that had
been tied together in a cross-hatch to make a sword.
Boy’s toys
. He strained his mind and decided that it made sense.
Farilion was the younger. Mela was, what, ten summers? No, twelve. Almost a
maiden flowered. She would have long discarded any dolls or other childish
things. He smiled. Women sought adulthood with a fierce need, whilst men held
on to their youth until senility stole it from them.
Or tragedy,
he thought, and briefly the phantom smell of burning
flesh curled in front of his nostrils.

Callistan stood and
wandered back into the hall. He called for Raiya long and loud but no answer
came, so he worked his way through the house towards the servants’ quarters.
They were separated from the main house by a thin wooden door that split across
the middle like a stable gate. He knew Cyna would be working but the rest of
the house was strangely empty and it gave Callistan an uncomfortable feeling,
as if he were trespassing. Through the door he could hear voices and the
activity of those who work to live. It calmed him, but he did not go through to
join them. Night was not far off now and he needed to find Raiya and the
children so they could at least prepare to escape. He reminded himself to warn
the servants to leave as well.

He turned away from the
orange glow that peeped under the door, and the warmth of human voices.
“Raiya?” he called again. He heard the door open behind him and the sounds of
bustling activity and boisterous conversation bled into the hallway.

Cyna stood there,
wringing a cloth in her hands. She was a large woman and she held the thick
wooden door at arm’s length like a displeasing suitor. “They’re out in the
orchard, milord,” she said.

“They?” he asked.

“Aye, milord. The lady
and the young master.”

“Farilion.” he said.

She nodded.

“And Mela? Where is
she?” Cyna looked uncomfortable and shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“It’s not my place to say,
milord,” she said dumbly.

Callistan frowned and
the worry in his stomach froze into hard ice. “Tell me.”

“I have not seen her for
a few days, milord. The Lady Raiya says she is sick but we are not permitted to
go upstairs in the main house, even to clean and change the bedclothes.” Cyna’s
craggy face wrinkled further as she went on. “It’s been that way since after
the last ride out, milord.” Callistan blinked, not understanding, so Cyna
continued. “The little lady, milord. She couldn’t go, because of her sickness.”

“How did she get sick?”
asked Callistan lamely.

“Just a fever, milord,
nothing too serious. She took ill one day and retired to her chambers but it
meant she had to miss the ride.” Cyna stopped, and when she noticed Callistan’s
confusion, she stumbled on, fumbling with the dishcloth. “We looked after her
here, but when Lady Raiya and the little master returned, we were told not to
go upstairs.”

Callistan nodded slowly
and his mouth was set into a grim line. “Thank you, Cyna. Go back to the kitchens,
please.” Cyna disappeared.

Callistan turned and
looked up the stairs. They spiralled and stretched away into shadow and
suddenly he was afraid to mount them, though he knew he must. He began to climb
on legs weak with dread, keeping to the edges so as to avoid creaking
floorboards, as though he did not want to be heard. He gripped the wooden
banister with his gloved left hand and pulled himself up, reluctant yet eager
to find out what had happened to his daughter.

He came out on a landing
of dark wooden floorboards. This was the highest point in the house and the
small porthole windows cut into the thick walls would probably afford a great
view over the surrounding landscape. However, each had been covered with a
stiff leather hide, nailed to the stone so that all was gloom. Only the most
persistent of the sinking sunlight spilled past the hides to form a halo on the
floor. Dust floated like snow in the meagre light, and looking down Callistan
could see a faint layer of grime that coated everything. His eyes were still
adjusting, milking what they could from the darkness, yet he could make out the
tell-tale marks of small footprints in the dust. Mela? Or had her brother been
here?

There were four doors
but only one was partially open and it was there that the footprints led.
Callistan walked towards it, careful not to mar the spoor with his own bigger
tread. He reached out and pushed the door open but it caught on something heavy
before it could open fully. He tried it again but the door would not move. Carefully
he slid his body through the gap and into the small room. There was a low bed,
a wooden chest and some furs, and there behind the door, a large pile of
discarded clothing and sheets. He knelt and rummaged through the pile but there
was nothing else besides the tangled fabrics.

Callistan stood and
looked around. The room was empty and the wooden shutters were locked against
the light from outside. The room smelt musty and had clearly been abandoned in
a hurry; the way the sheets on the bed were thrown back and the pile of
discarded clothing suggested somebody had ransacked a wardrobe to find
something. But what?

He made a cursory check
of the other rooms — a storage cupboard stacked with linens and unwanted
furniture; another large bedroom, similarly abandoned; an empty cell with bare
stone walls and a filthy wooden floor — and then went to the window. By
his reckoning it would offer him a view out over the fields behind the house.
He yanked the hide from the wall and eye-watering sunlight poured in as a
welcome torrent. Callistan blinked rapidly against the sudden pain and pressed
his thumbs into his eyes to try and massage them back to comfort.

When he opened them, he
could see again, though the orange ball of the sun was still too bright as it
sunk towards the horizon. Before him marched a wide expanse of green grass,
verdant from the life-giving stream that cut across it. The land stretched away
in a flat sweep, dotted here and there with darker patches where clumps of
trees stood or stubborn rock poked out from the turf like a burrowing animal.
To the right was a low hill upon which sat a cluster of trees in many shades of
green and brown, with leaves that caught the light as they flirted with the
cool breeze from the east. The orchard. It was a mess of woodland colour and
looked like it had not been cared for in some time, but even from this
distance, Callistan thought he could make out two small figures flitting
between the columns of the trees.