Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (32 page)

“I
will
speak to you, priest,” said Callistan loudly and clearly.
Droswain stopped mid-sentence, staring at him as he advanced and frowning in
confusion. The priest looked down at two large men who watched Callistan’s
progress hungrily, and with an almost imperceptible flick of that small, pointy
head, set them on their way to intercept him. Callistan laughed to himself with
genuine enjoyment. It was a clear, musical sound, joined only by the crashing
of the surf on the beach and the murmur of more distant happenings in parts of
the crowd unaffected by Droswain’s words. Droswain’s audience had fallen silent
and all were now staring at Callistan to see what would happen next. A narrow
path opened for him in the crowd. His laughter had thrown them off guard.
People were afraid of madness — they thought it catching.

The two big men waded
through the pack of people around Droswain’s wagon and closed on Callistan
quickly. One of them grinned — a grin with as many teeth as spaces where
teeth had once been — and crossed the last few paces to Callistan,
reaching out with one hand in a childish fashion, as though he could simply
pick up this loud, rude man and fling him into the sea.

Callistan waited until
the tips of the man’s fingers brushed his tunic and then whipped his hand up to
wrap a steel grip around the offending wrist. The man gasped in sudden panic
and tried to draw his hand back, but Callistan was too fast and he took
advantage of the man’s lethargy, twisting the captive arm around and slamming
the flat of his palm into the joint of the elbow. There was a deafening crack
and the large man dropped to the sand, nursing his broken arm and howling with
pain. The other man had disappeared, but just then Callistan was seized from
behind and a great meaty arm wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze.

His world darkened as
shadow crept in from the edges of his vision and it felt as though his skull
were about to burst like an overripe melon. Just before he passed out, a surge
of adrenaline returned his senses to him, and he kicked backwards with his
heel, feeling a connection with something soft and yielding. The second man
yelped like a scolded dog and fell, releasing Callistan. Air came rushing back
into his lungs and he wheezed and coughed, in danger of fainting from the
sudden richness of it. His hand fluttered to his throat and massaged the
bruised flesh there. Turning around, he saw that the second man was slowly
climbing to his feet, his eyes full of hate but also caution, one hand hovering
protectively in front of his groin.

“You’ll pay for that,”
the man said, drawing a knife.

Callistan shrugged and
drew his falcata from the sheath on his back. Stepping forward, he tensed,
ready to cut down savagely. A strong hand gripped his wrist and he looked up,
meeting Beccorban’s wintery gaze. The old warrior shook his head. “Enough of
this,” he said. “Put up your weapon.”

The man with the knife
spat and leapt forward, slashing outwards to gut Beccorban. Beccorban stepped
backwards quickly and let go of Callistan, reaching for his hammer. The mighty
weapon shone in the sun but, before he could bring it to bear, Callistan
stepped in front of him, twirling with a dancer’s grace to cleave a deep
diagonal stripe of darkest red across the knifeman’s face. The body dropped to
the ground without a sound, pouring dark blood on to the thirsty sand. The crowd
screamed as one and people began to fall over themselves to get away from the
violence.

“Stop!” rang out a clear
cultured voice. “This has gone too far.” Droswain had left his perch atop the
wagon and stood a few paces away, his hands raised palms outward to show he
meant no harm. Now that he was closer, Callistan could see that the priest was
somewhere around thirty to forty summers old. At the priest’s side were three
burly men, each armed with a club and a sour expression. That the priest
commanded people so easily spoke of his influence and Callistan wondered how
many followers he could cast into this fight. “Put up your weapon, Aston,”
Droswain spoke to the men beside him without turning his head. “You as well,
Burnet. Get Pimmel out of here. You are an embarrassment.” This last he
directed at the man with the broken arm, who sat like a child fallen in the
midst of play, nursing his injury.

One of the men blinked
in confusion then threw his weapon on to the floor with disgust. The other two
walked forward to drag the unfortunate Pimmel to his feet. Droswain nodded and
spat as Pimmel staggered past. “Fool!” His voice was dark with anger. He turned
to Callistan next and his face was calm again, as charming and as open as ever.
“You’ve killed one of mine.” He spoke as though he was discussing the weather
and Callistan marvelled at the audacity of the man.

“He started it,” he said
surlily, then added pointlessly, “He attacked me.”

“It was his duty to
protect me,” said Droswain admonishingly. “That’s what I paid him for.”

“Then I have saved you
some coin.”

Droswain’s eyes flashed
with anger at this remark but the public part of his face grinned maliciously.
He turned to meet the approaching Beccorban with a question. “Who are you and
what do you want?”

Beccorban reached behind
him, slipping his hammer back into the hidden thongs. Only when it was secure
did he answer in a guarded tone. “Travellers, looking to leave this land.”

“You are alone?”

“No, I am with my… wife,
and my son,” Beccorban waved a hand to encompass Riella and Loster, Mirril and
Crucio who were waiting nearby. He gestured for them to join him. “The girl is
travelling with us.”

“I see.” Droswain
narrowed his eyes as the others came to stand by Beccorban’s side. He pointed
at Callistan. “And him?” he asked, turning to Loster for an answer. “What is he
to you, boy?”

Loster’s pale face paled
further and he took on the expression of a startled deer. He swallowed and was
about to answer but Callistan answered for him. “I’m his brother,” he said.

Droswain laughed.
“Brother, father, son, daughter, horse. A strange family. Yes, very strange
indeed.” The priest cocked his head and spoke to Beccorban. “Your weapon, may I
see it?”

“Why?” Beccorban’s voice
was loaded with suspicion.

“Because the gods work
in mysterious ways, and believe me when I say this is important. For you and
your son. Your weapon?” Droswain prompted again and, surprisingly, Beccorban
slowly reached behind him to unhook his hammer once more. He held it out
warily, turning it so that the light caught the runes and engravings on the
killing end and rippled down the blood-dark wood of the haft. Callistan had to
admit, it was a beautiful piece of work. “Gods, it is you,” said Droswain. His
eyes — deep brown — took on a fervent energy. He spoke to the man
who had thrown away his club. “Fuller, go and find us a boat. We must leave
soon. Fetch the others”

“I’m not sure I
understand…” Beccorban began, but Droswain waved away his protests.

“You need to leave, yes?
To get on one of those ships?” He turned and pointed at the low, dark forms of
the waiting warships.

“Yes, but—”

“It is arranged,” said
Droswain simply. “I already have a berth waiting for me and I have paid the
captain in good coin. He will make room for guests of mine, though I cannot take
you all. You, Helhammer, you and your boy will come.”

Beccorban hugged the
hammer to him protectively and a shadow passed across his face. “Do not speak
that name here, priest. It will get me killed.” He looked around to make sure
nobody was within earshot. For the moment they were alone, the violence had
pushed the crowd further up the beach to the returning ferry boats. “How do you
know of me?”

“All in good time,
Beccorban. We will have lots of time to talk on the voyage, but first I must
have you and your son. What is your name, boy?”

“Loster.”

“Loster,” Droswain spoke
the name slowly as if he was savouring a fine wine. “A good name. A strong
name.” He snapped back to his senses. “Come, we must get to the boats.”

He stooped to pick up
the fallen club and began to walk away but Beccorban’s call made him look over
his shoulder. “Wait! I cannot leave the others.”

Droswain thought for a
second, and then said, “The girl. You can bring her.”

“We are all coming, or
none of us are,” growled Callistan.

“There is not enough
room. Now come, or we shall miss it.” Aston and Burnet had returned and their
presence was making the priest bold once again. Callistan felt an itching at
the back of his neck.

“No, priest. All of us
or none of us.” Beccorban added his gravelly protest.

Droswain turned back to
face them, a frown creasing his deceptively honest features. “Aston? Burnet?”

“Yes, Master Droswain?”
asked the one known as Aston.

“Kill the blond one.”
Droswain handed Aston his club and began to walk away. The two men lunged.

Callistan danced
backwards and brought his sword up to parry the clumsy blow from Aston’s club.
His riposte was a blur of metal and he buried the blade in Aston’s gut. The
falling weight of the dying man dragged the sword from his hand and Callistan
threw himself backwards as Burnet’s club came sweeping down at his head. As he
dodged, Callistan tripped on the body of the first man he had killed, landing
hard on his back in sand stained wet with blood. Burnet came on with a vicious
snarl and Callistan grabbed a fistful of sand and flung it in his eyes. The
sand was too damp to spread properly but it was a perfect throw and the wet
clod smacked into Burnet’s eyes with a slap. He shouted in alarm and stumbled
on the same body that had felled Callistan, and the blond warrior rolled away
to avoid his falling weight. Jumping to his feet, Callistan jogged over to
Aston’s twitching corpse, and put a boot on the dead man’s chest so that he
could tug his falcata free. He walked slowly over to Burnet who lay struggling
blindly on the ground.

“Callistan, don’t,” came
Beccorban’s despairing plea but Callistan was not listening. He hacked down and
the blade chopped into the back of Burnet’s neck, half severing his head.
Callistan worked the blade free from its fleshy prison and wiped the edge on
his tunic, leaving a long smear of sticky blood.

“Looks like two spaces
just opened up on that boat of yours,” he said, and Droswain nodded, walking
briskly off towards the waiting boats without another word.

“We are on that one,”
said the man she had heard called Droswain, gesturing vaguely to one of the
three ships lurking in the shallows of the bay. He was guiding them along the
beach, through crowds of people who, for the moment at least, were gathering in
an orderly fashion to try and gain a berth on one of the waiting ships. At the
shoreline, several small wooden punts were pulled up on to the sand, guarded by
grim-faced sailors in the blood crimson of Veria, each armed with a long stave
and the short, thick blade the sailors in Lanark called a hanger.

In front of each punt
stood another sailor, sometimes in uniform but often dressed in motley,
haggling with pockets of people seeking a voyage away from the beleaguered land
they had called home.

“I know its captain,”
the priest continued. “Alas, he is from Sturm, but he is reliable enough if you
have the coin. Which reminds me,” he looked back over his shoulder at Beccorban
as he walked, his priest’s robes hitched up around his waist to reveal skinny
legs that only accentuated his bird-likeness. “You will have to pay for the
other three, the two girls and the blond madman. Keep moving, Pimmel!”

The unfortunate Pimmel
was shuffling along at the head of the group and Riella realised that Droswain
was using him as a buffer to keep the crowd away from him in the same way that
Callistan used his horse. The priest’s tone was casual indifference and she
could not help but shake her head at how calm he could be after losing three of
his men.

As they passed more
boats and more crowds of people offering money, family heirlooms, and even
bonded service, Riella wondered how they were ever going to make it out on to
one of the sleek military ships nearby. “We have no coin,” she said. “Will you
just leave us here?”

Droswain thought for a
second, then answered with a smile that showed he did not care. “I am not the
gatekeeper, lady, I am but the messenger. Our captain will not have unpaid
stowaways on his vessel, not even pretty ones.” He leered at her and Riella
felt her gorge rise.

“I have already told
you, priest, all of us or none of us,” Beccorban’s voice was a low growl, like
an animal warning lost travellers away from his den. “If you want the boy… my
son and I, then you will have to think of something.”

“`Must you be so difficult,
old man?” mocked Droswain and Beccorban clenched his fists.

“Careful, priest. I am
not a man of words.”

“Nor a man of money,
apparently.”

“Maybe I will rip out
that silver tongue and use it to buy my passage,” offered Beccorban
explosively.

“Oh come, I’m sure we
can work something out — and do stop calling me priest. That particular
avenue of address has been closed to me.”

“What do we call you
then?” asked Riella.

“Droswain will do just
fine,” he said and then fell silent as another voice struck up.

“Outcast.” Riella turned
to see Callistan stride past her, leading Crucio by a short rein and eating up
the ground with his long legs. He checked his pace alongside the
priest-that-was-not-a-priest and Droswain instinctively angled away from the
tall warrior’s approach. Instead Callistan matched him step for step and the
pointy-headed orator could not retreat without losing face. Riella smiled to
herself and then quickly hid it. For all his callousness, the skinny little man
was offering them a way off of this blighted land. It would be wise not to
offend him. “Droswain is a priest no longer, because he has been exiled for
crimes against the gods,” Callistan continued. He, it seemed, had no such
qualms.

Loster touched his head
and his heart in the instinctive refrain of one born to religion, but Beccorban
simply laughed. “Ha! What did you do, priest? Forget to wear your robes to
ceremony?”

“He broke into a Temple
Deep and stole their secrets,” Callistan answered for him. “He broke the vows
of the Temple Dawn and sullied the Bond. He betrayed his fellows and risked the
wrath of Ghast himsel—”

“Quiet, you fool!”
screamed Droswain in a sudden fury. “Are you so stupid as to speak
that
name aloud?” Immediately it seemed
as though Callistan and Crucio were alone in a moving circle of empty sand.
Each of the party and a few eavesdropping members of the crowd around had taken
several involuntary steps away from him, as if he were a leper who had
forgotten his bell. Though she knew it was a superstitious nonsense, Riella
could not help but cringe with dread. All Daegermundi knew of the Black God.
Too many knew His true name but it was widely accepted by kings and common folk
alike that to speak it was to summon misfortune, destruction, and often death.
Even men as worldly and as formidable as Beccorban the Helhammer seemed cowed
by the utterance of that simple word, the name of the Defiler.

“We need to speak a
blessing,” said Loster quietly. When nobody responded, he began to mutter a
series of incantations and spells in Old Verian.

“That’s enough, Loster,”
said Droswain finally. “If He is even listening then I have already offended
Him enough to warrant His wrath. We are quite safe. Come, walk with me a
while.”

“He is fine here,
priest,” answered Beccorban, stepping closer to the young acolyte.

Droswain held up a
finger. “Not a priest, remember? And where could I possibly go? You are going
to have to learn to trust me if I am to get you away from this sinking ship
— excuse me, a poor choice of words — if I am to get you away from
all this…” he waved his hands around theatrically, “despair.”

Loster quickened his
pace to match the priest’s and, once he was within range, Droswain began to
whisper into his ear. Loster was taller than him but not by much, so the exiled
priest could easily pour whatever he wanted, honey or poison, straight into the
youth’s mind.

Ahead was a particularly
tight-bunched group of people and there were more than a few angry words being
thrown about. It would not be long before they replaced words with fists and
stones and perhaps even knives, but for the moment the temper of the crowd was
holding. This was largely due to the handful of mounted soldiers, mostly
veteros and sarifs, who trotted along the top of the beach where the sand dunes
became hairy with grass and hard with black rock. They were from the outpost
that had been carved from the ruins of Fend and they should have been confident
with the fortress at their backs but they were not. Instead they wore nervous
expressions and more than once Riella caught them casting glances back towards
the distant ramparts of patchwork stone.

“Can I ride on Crucio
again?” asked Mirril sweetly. Riella looked ahead at Callistan who held the
reins of the big warhorse loosely in one hand.

“I don’t think so,
child. Not just yet.” In truth Riella had no idea if Callistan would allow the
girl on his horse again but she dared not approach him to ask. Even staring at
the back of his head made her feel uncomfortable in ways she could not explain.

A cool wind blew down
the beach from the north and passed through the crowd like a spectre passing
through a wall. It stirred scarves and cloaks and unbound hair and Riella’s
long locks flew into angry motion as a slither of golden snakes. She made to
hug her cloak about her tighter but felt some resistance. She looked down to
see the girl, Mirril, leaning into her to shield herself from the bite of the
breeze. Riella opened her cloak and swept Mirril’s frail form inside and then
closed it again, wrapping her in as much warmth as her own body could muster.
“You need a good meal, Mirril. Then you won’t feel the cold at all.”

“What about you?” asked
Mirril.

Riella laughed. “Maybe
you can share some with me.”

“We are here!” announced
Droswain with a flourish. He cupped his hands to his mouth to call out above
the heads of the crowd. “Grundis! Grundis, clear the way, it’s your favourite
landlegger!”

There came a shout and a
scuffle, and two squat men in threadbare tunics of brown cloth that might have
once been crimson red beat a path through the assembly before them. With the
way open, a very small man — even smaller than Droswain — came
scuttling forward with all the enthusiasm of the condemned ascending to the
headsman’s block.

“Droswain. You’ve
returned.” The man’s voice was flat and unburdened by emotion. He sounded
bored.

“Yes, I have, and I’ve
brought guests.”

The man known as Grundis
ran a laborious glance over the group, pausing when he met Callistan’s eyes,
before turning slowly back to Droswain. “We’ve no room. You have space for
four. No more.” If Grundis had caught any whiff of the musicality of his
speech, no evidence of it showed on his face. Instead, he turned and walked
back down the aisle held open by his men.

Droswain turned to
Beccorban and spread his hands. “What did I say?” His tone was apologetic but
Riella could hear the sneer scratching to come out from behind his teeth. “No
coin, no passage. Come, young Loster.” He placed stubby-fingered hands on
Loster’s bony shoulders. “Let us get a seat in the front.”

“Hold!” Beccorban howled
and many in the crowd turned to see what was happening. “Take your hands from
the boy, priest or I shall cut them from you.”

For a moment there was a
standoff, with Droswain clutching Loster’s shoulders as though he were a
favourite toy and Beccorban with one hand behind his back, ready to draw the
weapon that had brought him infamy. Loster had gone as pale as milk and looked
about ready to faint.

“Calm yourself, bearded
one.” Callistan stepped forward with Crucio and the tension was cut. Beccorban
growled something in a low voice but fell silent as Callistan produced a small
speck of gold from his tunic. As he held it up it caught the light and sparkled
with a well-known gluttonous gleam. Grundis, his interest restored, shot
forward with his palm outstretched and Callistan deposited the tiny droplet of
gold into his hand. The little man held it up again to the light.

“It’s a tooth!” he
declared.

“Is that a problem?”
asked Callistan darkly.

“What? No. No problem,
just an observation.” In the presence of his shiny god, Grundis was suddenly
much more accommodating.

“The horse too,”
Callistan said, making a point of flexing his hands.

Grundis looked up and
narrowed his eyes as if trying to find a jest hidden behind Callistan’s words.
“I have no need of a horse.”

“And I am not selling
him. I am buying his passage.”

Grundis looked at
Callistan as though his brains had dribbled out of his nose. “You think we have
room for a horse?”

“I think you have room
for
my
horse.”

Beccorban leant in to
Riella and whispered, “I told you he loved that damned horse.”

She hit him playfully
and he chuckled.

Grundis frowned and
looked about him, seemingly lost for words. “He can’t come on our boat.”

“He can and he will.”

“He won’t fit!”
protested Grundis and Callistan ran his eyes over the small boat. It was low
and flat and large enough for maybe ten people, but there was no way it would
fit a horse.

He grunted. “You have
more boats?” When Grundis spluttered instead of answering, he continued. “He
can go on one of the others.” He turned and looked at Pimmel, who stood behind
Droswain, holding his damaged arm and scowling. “Pimmel can take him. Isn’t
that right, Pimmel?” Callistan spat out the hard syllables as if they were pith
and grinned a dazzling grin.

Grundis tried to argue
but his arguments grew increasingly weak. He had been paid passage for ten
people several times over. Gold was an imperial metal and it was rarely seen
outside of the royal court or the worship houses of large cities. Eventually it
was agreed that the tooth would buy them all — including Crucio — a
berth on the ship, though no comforts could be promised and they would alight
at the port of Farstar on the Daegermundi coast. Farstar was in southern
Dalvoss and, though it was not quite far enough away from Veria to guarantee
their safety, it would give them a head start over the invaders. From there
they might be able to work their way inland or arrange passage even further
north, to Pleippo perhaps, or even the island of Sturm. Maybe the tall knights
had not yet reached those distant shores.

Crucio was led away down
the beach by a surly Pimmel while the rest of them were guided through the
crowd with the two scruffy sailors as escorts. Riella could feel the accusing
eyes of the people around lancing into her like knives. Shame flushed red on to
her cheeks.

“Why do they get special
treatment?” she heard a young girl ask her mother.

“Cursed lost nobles,
arriving late and skipping ahead,” said another voice.

“Always the bloody
same.”

They made it through the
gauntlet of the crowd and approached the punt. It was drawn up on the beach
alongside the scars of the other trips it had made this morning, deep grooves
and gouges that the sea had not yet been able to wash away. Indeed, the grey
waters of the Scoldsee seemed sluggish, lapping lazily along the shore as
though they had no interest in bearing men today. The outgoing tide had left
great slicks of trapped water that lay in pools along the stretch of sand. They
looked to Riella like great mirrors, reflecting the bright grey sky above. She
looked beyond the ship they were to travel on and saw that farther out the
waters were in a violent turmoil, crashing and leaping in explosions of white
foam and blue-grey spray.
Of course, we
are in a bay,
she thought. The waters here were sheltered by the headland.