Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (30 page)

The knight gasped and
fell to one knee before toppling sideways and tearing Callistan’s sword from
his grip. Callistan walked around the shuddering and heaving body and came to a
stop in front of its face so that he could look his enemy in the eye as it died.
It tried to say something but coughed up frothy blood instead and then, with a
final convulsion, went still. Callistan watched as its great red eyes dried in
the indifferent breeze, then wrenched his sword from the body with a squeal of
tortured metal.

A quick glance over his
shoulder confirmed that the big man was still fighting — two of his foes
were down and the other was stepping warily backwards. Antler Helm stood
nearby, watching impassively. Alone. Where was the other?

A scream reached his
ears and he turned to see the missing knight stalking towards the orchard.

Mela!
He had to
protect her.

Riella watched with
fascination as the two men fought the tall soldiers. Beccorban was a marvel to
behold, leaping and twirling with a heavy grace while the savage length of
Kreyiss whipped around him to sow death wherever it landed. The noise rung
across the field with a curious rhythm as though the old warrior were a
blacksmith, his enemy ready to be quenched. With the warhammer in his hands, he
seemed twenty years younger.

But if Beccorban was a
marvel then the blond man was something frightening. He rode his horse with the
skill of one born to ride, twirling and wheeling the nimble creature between
the gaps in the wall of armour before him. There was a terrifying and brutal
efficiency to the way he fought. He never overstretched, never made his horse
work harder than it had to, and before long there were only six enemies left
standing. Riella looked on, her lips parted slightly. She took a few involuntary
steps forward, as though her feet wanted her to join the fray. Her cloak
fluttered open as the clawed hand of the wind tried to snatch it from her.

Beccorban was left with
three, while the stranger was being pushed back by his opponent. The knight
with the spiked helm stood motionless nearby with another, watching. Riella
could not be sure he was the same knight they had seen in Kressel but it made
sense. They had known they would be followed but never this soon.
Is that how they had taken the second city?
With terrifying speed?

Beccorban took down one
of his opponents with a savage strike, swaying out of range of a big sword and
lashing out with Kreyiss in return to break bones and splinter plate. He seemed
to be enjoying himself.

“Oh gods,” breathed Loster
and Riella flicked an irritated gaze at the boy.
Man, indeed.

The blond horseman was
on foot now. It made him seem less lordly and imposing but he was no less
skilled. He moved with the fluidity of a dancer; the long curved blade he
carried was a glistening blur in the morning light that was met time and again
by the darker, thicker line of the other’s blade.
What are these creatures?
she thought.
Where have they come from?
She felt fear foam in her gut and
ruthlessly quelled it. If the two men died then she would have to fight.
The boy will run. He has that look.

The tall knight forced
the blond man back and he fell. Riella bit her lip and then gasped with relief
as the horseman sprang to his feet and struck clear of his enemy’s weapon. She
looked sidelong at Loster again. He was gripping the fabric of his trews but it
did not stop his hands from quivering with fear.

One of the tall soldiers
near Antler Helm strode forward with purpose. Riella thought that he meant to
outflank the blond cavalryman but then realised, with a plunging feeling, that
he was coming straight at them. The tall warrior broke into a long-legged run
and Loster took a step backwards. “R-riella!” he whimpered as Mirril screamed.

Riella cursed. “Loster,
take Mirril and hide in the orchard.” He nodded, seemingly glad that she had
taken responsibility away from him. She hoped he could see the disgust in her
eyes. Riella drew Esha from her belt and pushed Mirril towards him. “Go, now!”

Loster took the girl by
the hand and began to run towards the trees. She watched them go and then
turned back to the approaching knight.

In the distance,
Beccorban was a blur of motion.
Pray let
his anger be swift
. Soon it would be too late to save them.

Loster took a deep
breath to calm his heart. He breathed in the musty, over-sweet stench of the
rotten orchard and tried not to gag at the taste.
What are you doing?
he thought.
You
should be with Riella.

“
Coward,
” came Barde’s voice. “
Weak.
”

He shook his head to
quiet the noise and Mirril whimpered at the sudden movement. “Be quiet!” he
snapped, immediately regretting the tone. “I’m sorry, Mirril.”

“Can we go? Please, can
we go?” Mirril half-stood and began to tug at his arm. “Loster, please!”

“
Go on, run away with her. Two little girls fleeing like scared birds.
”

“Shut up!” Loster
shouted and Mirril cried out. “I’m sorry! Not you, Mirril! I wasn’t speaking to
you!”

“We need to go!” She
pulled at his arm, leaning back to put the full insistence of her weight behind
her.

He wanted to give in to
her, wanted to turn and run away through the trees until the sound of metal
against metal was a memory and there were no more demons to chase him, but he
knew it was pointless. Whatever he and his brother had unlocked in the
Widowpeak could not be stopped. Those tall grey men in faceless helms would
follow him to the ends of the earth and still he did not know why.

“Loster!” Mirril
screamed and he snapped out of his reverie.

“I’m sorry, Mirril. We
can’t go. We can’t leave the others.” He breathed in deeply and felt a sharp
pain as something deep in his lungs clicked. He stood and his knees threatened
to fail him but now he was resolved and none of the voices in his head would
turn him aside.

“
Going to do men’s work? You haven’t even got a weapon!
” Barde’s
laughter was crueller than anything he could have mustered in life and it stung
Loster, making the backs of his ears grow warm.

“Stay here, Mirril. I’ll
come back for you.”

“Don’t leave me!” she
cried but he ignored her. This was the safest place for her. He had to go and
do something.

Anything.

Beccorban darted forward
and brought his weapon down on the last knight’s neck. The tall figure crumpled
to the earth with a crash. Antler Helm, standing some distance behind, did not
even flinch though he was now alone. Instead, the tall knight pulled a long,
intricately curved horn from a sling on his back. He raised it to his lips,
reaching up and at the same time removing his strange helmet in one fluid
motion. Beccorban stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that face: long black
hair and bluish skin and features that would appear human if they were not so
mournful and oddly distorted. His ears were sharp and pointed, like the masked
stranger that Beccorban had killed in the Dantus.
Not of your kind, indeed,
he thought.

Antler Helm blew a low,
nasal note and then stood still. There was a distant screech like a knife
caught in bone, and the huge, feathered creature that Beccorban had seen from
his eyrie above Kressel appeared behind the ruins of the farmhouse. It unfurled
leathery wings and leapt to Antler Helm’s side, shielding him from view.
Beccorban staggered backwards as the wind from the beast’s movement flattened
the grass around him. He brought his forearm up to shield his eyes, and when he
brought it down again, he could see that Antler Helm was seated on the strange
creature’s back, a thin pair of reins held loosely in one spiked hand. With the
other, the demonic figure placed his helm back on to his head and then raised
his free arm so that one finger was pointed directly at Beccorban’s heart.
Beccorban felt fear wash over him but he stood firm, holding Kreyiss out in
front of his chest to ward off whatever dark curse this foul creature was
spinning.

Finally Antler Helm
turned and, with a horrible scream, his feathered beast carried him over the
trees and off into the distance. Beccorban stood and watched him go. He was
exhausted but there was a strange itching under his jerkin where the dread
knight had pointed and he felt as though there was some special significance to
the gesture that he was yet to see.

He counted only six
bodies though there should have been seven. He looked around for the remaining
knight and then remembered Riella and the others with a jolt. A cry brought his
attention back to the distant ridge and he could make out a tall, loping figure
that was almost upon Riella. She was still so far away, yet he could see that
she stood with her hands held out defensively. He started to run towards her.
You know you can’t save her.
Beccorban
ignored his doubts and put his head down. He tripped and fell, falling heavily
on to his front. Gasping for air, he planted his hands on the ground to push
himself up and stopped.

Something was moving
fast, and it was making the very earth vibrate.

This was it. This was
the moment she died, here in a field in the middle of nowhere, far from home,
far from her dreams, forgotten, abandoned. Even Beccorban would not be able to
save her, only cradle her broken body and avenge her death. As the demon came
closer, she pictured the heavy weight of Kreyiss splitting that implacable
helm, the skull underneath bursting like a ripe melon, and a small voice in her
head cheered at the image. She felt a sudden calm envelop her like a blanket
and looked up to meet the black, eyeless gaze of the knight.

A harsh scraping sound
broke through her solace and then became a screech. The knight flew forward,
narrowly missing her to land on his face a few paces behind her. She took a
deep breath and blinked and a clod of turf hit her in the chest as the blond
warrior thundered past on his horse without so much as a downwards glance.

The world came rushing
back in and she staggered, falling to her knees, half turning as she fell to
see the knight lying motionless, a great red gash at the back of his neck.
There on the grass beside the corpse was a small wooden horse.

The blond man moved like
a flash of summer lightning and gripped Loster roughly by the chin with one
filthy hand wrapped in stained rags. At first he had ridden past, dismounting
by the orchard and disappearing inside. He reappeared moments later and now he
had Loster at his mercy. Something on Loster’s cheek felt over-warm and he
peered down, flinching with disgust as he realised that the man was missing a
finger. The day’s exertions had opened the crude stitching and blood ran thick
and warm down the man’s arm and Loster’s face. Without warning the blond man
forced two fingers from his other hand — whole but no less filthy —
into Loster’s open mouth and the young acolyte gagged and bowed over, trying to
fight his way free. The man’s grip was like a smith’s vise.

His fingers probed
around Loster’s mouth, pressing down on to his tongue and making him retch. The
blond man ran the tip of his finger behind the crescent of Loster’s teeth,
bruising the roof of his mouth. Loster kicked out and managed to land a blow on
the madman’s thigh, but there was no sign that he had noticed. Finally,
desperate, Loster bit down on the invading fingers and the blond man yelped and
jumped back, cradling his hands and then looking up at Loster with an
expression of betrayal.

“Get away from him,”
boomed Beccorban’s voice. Loster turned to see the big warrior, hammer held
low, Riella beside him.

The blond man ignored
Beccorban, his eyes lancing into Riella’s. “What is your name?” he asked. His
voice was low and soft, yet cultured with the crisp tones of nobility.

“Riella,” she answered.

“And your second name?”
he pressed her and there was an edge of desperation to his voice.

“I do not have a second
name,” she said, bowing her head. To have no second name was to be the lowest
of the low in Daegermund yet the blond warrior showed no notice of her
admission and turned to Beccorban instead.

“And you, hammerman.
What is yours?”

“You must be insane if
you think I will stand here and—”

“Tell him,” said Riella.
“It is only a name.”

Beccorban looked at her
with a scowl and then turned back to the blond man. “Beccorban. My name is
Beccorban, though I am often called other things.”

“Beccorban.” The blond
man rolled the word around his mouth like a morsel of exotic food and his eyes
wandered up into memory as he sought to place it in his mind.

“What is yours,
horseman?” Beccorban asked gruffly. “I like to know who I kill.”

The blond man came out
of his reverie and that baleful green gaze wandered over Beccorban as though he
was seeing him for the first time. “I am Callistan,” he said, “and that is all
I can remember.”