Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (26 page)

“No!” Selene tried to
sit up and fell backwards. “Go, boy. We have nothing more to say to each other.
I want to speak to… Beccorban.”

Loster looked at the big
warrior and gave a wry smile. He was not happy at Selene’s passing, but nor was
he sad, and that bothered him.

“Tell me about your
weapon…” he heard Selene say as he walked away.

Loster went to stand
with the woman and the weeping girl. Beccorban knelt close to Selene as she
said something, then suddenly threw himself backwards and scrambled to his
feet. He wheeled away and there was a small blade sticking from his side.
Selene’s blade. “Oh gods,” said Loster and ran to help the big warrior.

“The bitch stabbed me,”
Beccorban said incredulously. He tugged the blade out of his side and hissed at
the pain, pressing his hand against the wound. Loster made to go to Selene but
Beccorban put a hand out. “Don’t, lad. She’s already dead.”

Selene was not dead,
merely dying. When she awoke it was bright, not yet day, but light enough to
see by. She thought it intensely unfair that she was dying; she felt more alive
than ever. She had found the Scourge — alive after all these years of
uncertainty — and ended him. The blade would not kill him, of course, but
the sweetwater would. She wanted to laugh but did not have the strength. She
did not want to die.

Something moved close by
and a shadow blocked out her light. She closed her eyes, and when she opened
them again there was a young blond-haired man staring at her. He spoke through
thin lips, though she could not make out his words. She knew she was dying but
she had never felt more afraid. She gasped as she felt her bladder let go.

The man spoke again but
this time she could understand him. “Your friends. Where did they go?”

She shook her head.

“Tell me.” His voice was
deep and as smooth as honey.

“Help me and I’ll tell
you. I want to live. I know, you need me.”

Something sharp cut into
her belly and she began to convulse. Fresh blood awoke the dried blood around
her mouth and she gagged. The man held something up so she could see. It was an
oily lump of flesh, dark purple and dripping with gore. She wanted to look away
but knew she could not. He spoke to her again.

“This is your liver. It
is as sweet to me as the scent of your fear.” He opened his mouth and took a
bite, and she could see that he had two sets of teeth.

They ran over the bright
open ground as fast as they could, driven by the knowledge that they might be
ridden down at any moment. Loster felt weak and his legs burned with fatigue
but he pushed on. The big man, Beccorban, was still bleeding and yet he ran
ahead, the small form of Mirril slung over his shoulder.

“If you think you’ve
gotten away with it, think again.” The woman called Riella ran alongside,
spitting venom between breaths. “Once we’re clear of the city, you can answer
for what you did to him.”

Loster looked at her.
Her eyes sparkled and he could not tell if it was the glint from the moonlight
or crystallised anger. “I didn’t stab him. Selene and I were not... I was her
prisoner.”

Riella snorted. “A fine
job she was doing. Keep your distance or you’ll wish we left you back there
with the tall men.” She quickened her pace and moved forward to Beccorban and
Mirril. Loster hung his head and spat out something sticky.

“
Threatened by a woman. You really are formidable.
”

Loster ignored the
mocking voice of the phantom in his head. There were dark shapes nearby: other
escapees making their own way to safety. It could not be long before some of
them were caught. A dark line ahead marked the end of the open plain and the
beginning of the dense pine forests that skirted the Dantus. If they could make
it inside the treeline they might be able to elude whatever came after them.

Beccorban had stopped up
ahead and Mirril stood by his side holding his hand. They were just outside the
treeline but close enough to make a dash for it if they were chased. Beccorban
waved them all into a group. Loster was grateful for the rest but he noticed
how laboured the big man’s breathing was.
He’s
been carrying another person. You can barely carry yourself.

“Once we get inside it’s
going to be pitch dark,” said Beccorban. “Now, it won’t be long before they
come for us.” Mirril whimpered at this. “Be calm, child. You’re safe with me.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s going to be very dark. I want us all to stick
together. No going off by yourself.”

Riella moved towards
him. “Let me see to your wound.”

“I’m fine.”

“It won’t take long,
I—”

“I’m fine! Now leave me
be and I’ll get us out of this.” Beccorban took another big breath and wiped
the sweat from his brow. His clothes were dark but the wetness where he had
been stabbed glistened as he moved. He turned and pointed to the forest. “I
shall lead. Then the girl, the boy, and finally you, lass.”

Riella nodded but Loster
caught the wicked glance she threw in his direction. He was not comfortable
with her behind him.

“
She’s going to stick a knife in your guts. Leave you for dead and say
you fell.
” Loster shook his head.

‘Is there a problem?”
Riella asked.

“Uh, no. I just have a
headache.”

“Poor you.”

They took another minute
to rest, then Beccorban hoisted Mirril on his shoulders and they all stepped
into the soupy shadows of the forest.

In the distance a horn
sounded.

The forest smelt musty
and damp. Life was dense here and Loster felt like a million unseen eyes were
staring straight at him. The forest drank light and sound, so his world was reduced
to a small bubble around him. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand
and he convinced himself that he was making too much noise. Every twig he
stepped on was a huge tree crashing to the ground, every bump an echo that
shook him like a physical blow. The others were silhouettes in front of him.
Beccorban was right, there was no light here. It was as though the forest
jealously guarded its secrets from the sky, blocking out anything from above.

Riella was a whisper of
noise behind and Loster’s stomach clenched every time she fell silent. He knew
she wanted to kill him and the injustice of it angered him. He had not hurt
Beccorban — he had no reason to. Why should he pay for the crimes of the
Sons of Iss? It made no sense for Selene to stab the big warrior. He had saved
their lives and she repaid him with steel. All her talk of justice and ideals
should have meant more.

“
You’re a fool, Loster, and fools die first,
”
said Barde.

It came to him then. The
hammer. Of course. Selene had asked Beccorban about his weapon, and his name…
Hadn’t that been the name of the Helhammer? She thought he was the Scourge, the
man who had burned Iss.
But that man is
dead…

“Keep moving, you’re
slowing us down.” Riella’s voice was closer than he thought it would be. He
hoped she hadn’t seen him flinch.

“Where are we going?” he
whispered.

“Don’t ask questions.
The old man knows what he’s doing.”

Loster frowned. He had
not thought of Beccorban as
old
. He
was — that was not in question — but he radiated such power, such confidence
and strength. It didn’t seem right to call him
old
. It was dismissive. Old meant weak, close to death. He thought
of Aifayne and realised that he had never asked how old the priest truly was.
Aifayne would probably have thought that rude.

His foot plunged into
something cold and he gasped as water spilled in over the tops of his boots.

“Quiet, you fool!”

“It’s a stream!” he said
too loudly, earning himself a shove in the back from Riella.

“So what?”

“So it must lead to
something bigger. If we can find a boat…” he trailed off.

Riella hesitated before
she replied. “Wait here,” she snapped and shouldered past him. He heard her
call out for Beccorban and they held a hushed conversation. When she returned
she stepped into a pool of moonlight that had forced its way through the
blockade above. Her expression was surly but it could not hide her beauty and
Loster felt breathless. He had always been intimidated by pretty women.
“Beccorban says to follow it. We will follow behind. Oh, and he said not to step
in the water again.”

Loster nodded and bent
down to feel for the stream. It was cool and he wanted desperately to bend his
head and drink, but in the darkness he could not see how filthy it was. He set
off, following the glints of light that wove their way between pools of inky
shadow. It looked to him like the slimy trail of a snail. The others came
behind, though he had to keep turning to check — the only sound he could
hear was the squelching of his sodden boot.

They followed the stream
for an hour or so. It grew wider quickly and Loster sped up with excitement
before a sharp telling off from Riella brought him back. A few times they heard
the sound of a horn in the distance but each time it was further away. For the
first time in days, Loster began to feel something akin to hope. A steady
tinkling sound grew louder in his ears and he realised that they were coming
upon the river that fed the stream.

There was a brightness
in front where the water cut through the forest. Loster burst out on to the
banks, ignoring the curses behind him. The river was not as wide as he had
thought it would be but it seemed plenty deep.

Riella exploded from the
trees at his back. “I warned you to stay close. Don’t think he’ll protect you.
I’m…” she stopped and looked over his shoulder, her wagging finger dropping
limply to her side. Loster spun on his heel to follow her gaze.

There, on the opposite
bank, was a boat. It was not large, nor did it appear very sound, but it was
big enough for four of them and it would carry them away from the fires of
Kressel and the demons that haunted the coast. Beccorban and Mirril emerged
from the treeline. The girl was still visibly upset but she had stopped
sobbing. Beccorban left her with Riella and, upon seeing the boat, began to
strip down. He folded his clothes as he went, making sure that his hammer was
wrapped in the bearskin cloak and placed carefully on the ground. As he tugged
off his tunic he winced in pain. The puncture wound was under his ribs on his
right side, an angry-looking red-lipped wound that oozed with blood.

“Beccorban,” Riella
stepped forward. “Let me go. You’re hurt.”

The big man shook his
head and hopped on one foot as he yanked off a boot. “No, lass. I’m the only
one who will be able to drag it back. Besides, the water should clean the
wound.”

Loster glanced at the
black water. It looked clear enough.

Riella’s face betrayed
her opinion. “What about the boy?” She pointed at Loster and he felt his cheeks
grow warm.

Beccorban pursed his
lips. “How old are you, lad?”

“Fourteen summers.”

“Not a boy then, lass. A
man grown.” Beccorban winked at him and he could not help but grin. “Stay here
while I fetch the boat.” He grinned. “Loster will protect you.”

Loster caught the hiss
of indrawn breath from Riella and hung his head. He knew he should be doing
something but the big man was right. He would not have the strength.

“
Weak,
” said a muted voice nestled between his ears.

Riella snorted with
anger and turned away but Beccorban just laughed, naked in the moonlight.
Loster had never seen anything like him. Sometimes strongmen had visited Elk
with travelling troupes but none could boast of such a physique. Beccorban’s
arms and chest were huge mounds of knotted muscle, smoothing down to a flat
plate of a belly. His upper body was a patchwork of pale scars that
criss-crossed his arms and chest yet, as he turned and stepped into the water,
Loster could see that his back was unmarred. This man had never run from an
enemy. Loster’s eyes were drawn to a thick wormy rope of scar tissue that
stretched from Beccorban’s collar bone and disappeared under his arm. The
knife-wound in his side seemed puny in comparison, though it still leaked
sluggish rivers of blood into the water.

“I’m not happy about
this,” Riella called over her shoulder, covering Mirril’s eyes with her hand.

“That’s not the reaction
I usually get,” said the hammerman.

Loster laughed and
watched as Beccorban waded into the river, pulling himself out into the middle
with long, powerful strokes. He crossed it in no time at all, climbing the
opposite bank and hauling the small boat towards the water. It was stuck fast
at first but he rocked it back and forth and eventually it came loose, slipping
down into the river. Loster felt relief flutter to life in his chest. They had
made it.

Beccorban stopped when
the boat was in the water. He stood suddenly upright, holding on to the boat
for support. “Why doesn’t he get in?” said Loster under his breath.

Riella came to his side.
“What’s the matter?” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Beccorban!”

Loster looked at her. “I
thought we were supposed to be quiet?”

She ignored him and
called out again. “Beccorban!”

The big warrior did not
move but just stood there, swaying slightly now.

“Something is wrong,”
said Loster. He had a sudden memory of Selene and the phial she kept hidden in
her robes.

“
We could put it in his water, or I could dip my blade in it…
”

“Sweetwater,” he said
quietly. “Riella, I think he’s been poisoned.”

Riella stared hard at
him and opened her mouth to speak, and then, at the corner of vision, Beccorban
collapsed.

More than anything it
was rage. Annoyance, frustration and pain, but above all that a white hot,
bubbling rage that pulsed from somewhere behind his eyes and blurred his
vision, until he was not sure whether it was from the poison or the turmoil in
his mind. Poison was a coward’s weapon, of course, a weapon of women and
limp-wristed mother’s sons who could not stand and fight like real men.
Beccorban had never been poisoned before. In all that time of fighting and
killing and making enemies, every foe he had faced had met him with steel in
hand, ready to feel the warm rush of spilled blood as they took a life.

He pictured Selene’s
face and how, even as she lay dying, her hatred had the strength to twist her
features into a mask of rage. “Stay dead this time, Scourge,” she had said as
she plunged the knife into his side. He had thought the Sons of Iss above this
but then he had been gone for a long time. Even his enemies had forgotten their
honour.

Beccorban spat and shook
his head, flicking sweat from his brow. He couldn’t tell the others. They would
doubt him, tell him he was not fit for service. He had seen what happened to
cripples, to the men whose minds and bodies had been sacrificed on the altar of
violence. They were abandoned, patted on the back and handed some paltry
compensation and then forgotten about, left to waste away or do the noble thing
and take their own lives. That would not be him. Not ever. He would not be
brought low by herbs and foul waters. He had killed more men than most met in
their lives, some reluctantly, others with a casual ease, still more he had
slain with a savage joy — but he was ashamed of those deaths. A few had
died hard, men like the Sons of Iss and Greathelm, patron of the Forgotten.
Greathelm had died spitting and cursing as Beccorban sawed a knife between his
ribs, but it had been honourable, at least.