Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (33 page)

She made to help Mirril
into the punt but Callistan beat her to it, taking the small girl gently by the
hand and lifting her on to the bench seat. It was the only time she had seen
him smile.

The two stocky escorts
rammed their shoulders into the wooden prow and, inch by inch, the small boat
began to ease back towards the sea. Beccorban passed his bundled cloak and
weapon to Riella — again she struggled with the weight of it — and
added his shoulder to the task, helping the two others push the punt seawards.
Loster was already seated near the back with Droswain, who still whispered
words into his ear and paused every now and again, beaming at the young man as
though he had told a joke and was expecting a response. Loster’s face was still
pale but he smiled weakly at the priest whenever he could muster the energy.

Riella started as
Callistan stepped into the boat, too close to her. She caught a whiff of his
smell: earth and sweat and smoke. It was a heady mix and she felt herself
reeling. She clutched at Mirril’s hand and squeezed hard.

“Ow! You’re hurting me!”
the girl protested.

“I’m sorry, Mirril. I’m
just nervous.”

“Oh,” said Mirril with
understanding. “Don’t worry, Riella. I’ll look after you. I’m used to the sea.
Father…” she stopped and her pouty mouth plunged downwards as though to escape
the sudden stream of tears that erupted from her eyes.

Riella hugged the small
girl to her chest and looked up to see Callistan staring at her. His eyes were
of the deepest green and she thought for a moment that she might fall into
them. His face, though scarred and blistered, was handsome — lordly
almost. “She misses her father,” he said unnecessarily and Mirril let out a
muffled howl into Riella’s bosom. Callistan quickly looked away, embarrassed,
and Riella felt like she wanted to laugh, having caught the sudden lack of
confidence in his eyes. She turned and stared back towards the land.

The boat rocked as
Beccorban clambered over the gunwale, followed quickly by the two other men and
Grundis. The two sailors made their way to the oars that bumped limply against
the side of the boat and seated themselves more comfortably. With a heave they
got the boat into motion, driving it on with powerful chests and arms used to
suffering the punishment demanded by the sea.

As they pushed further
out into the bay, the waters became choppier and the boat began to rock up and
then down again in a lazy, nauseating movement. Suddenly Loster broke out from
under Droswain’s arm and flung the top half of himself over the side of the
boat. There was an ugly, liquid splash and Riella turned away to save the boy
embarrassment. Callistan laughed long and heartily and Droswain and Beccorban
both scowled at the tall horseman.

Looking at the steadily
shrinking shore, Riella could finally appreciate just how many people there
were crowded on to the beach. There were at least a thousand, all those who had
made it out of the steadily tightening noose set by the enemy; an enemy that
had broken Kressel, and Ruum, and probably Temple itself by now. Nowhere other
than elsewhere was truly safe. Riella had never made it to the capital but she
had a firm picture of it in her mind: the grand spires and golden domes of the
myriad houses of worship inside its high, white walls. Yet now when she
pictured it, the white marble walls were tinged with the orange of greedy flame
and stained with a crimson hue — not of Verian heraldry but of human
blood. She shuddered and her eyes passed up over the sands of the beach, into the
tough grass that fought its way to the light through the shifting and choking
powder to grow into green fields, dotted with trees and bushes of wiry gorse,
stained and discoloured by the wet salt winds.

Higher still, the jagged
line of Fend’s distant ramparts stuck upwards like broken teeth. The fortress
had never been fully rebuilt, not since the Helhammer had cast it into majestic
rubble. Instead, rudimentary shelters had been built in the encirclement of the
ruins, still guarded from attack by eight feet or so of ancient stone and a
half-ruined watchtower, one side of which was open to the mercies of the winds,
as though a giant had taken a bite out of it. Atop the tower, at the tip of its
conical roof, was a weather-vane shaped to resemble a bird. As she watched, the
wind stirred it to life, until suddenly it took flight.

She thought she was
going mad, until she realised that it had not been a weather-vane after all but
rather a crow that had found a high perch. She grinned at her own stupidity and
followed the path the bird took. It soared over the peaks and troughs of the
thermals in the air and wheeled around about itself as it rode the fury of
invisible waves. Finally it dipped its wings behind its back and dropped like
an arrow down below the crest, only to fly up again in a furious panic of
motion, flapping its wings manically.

And this time it was not
alone.

A hundred birds of
different sizes and shapes and colours suddenly erupted from behind the ridge,
as though somebody from a childhood rhyme had cut open a great pie. They flew
as a dark mass, up and away from the beach, darting and twisting, instinctively
avoiding each other as if they had been schooled in some kind of ritualistic
dance. Riella marvelled at the sight but then her eyes were drawn quickly
elsewhere, for at the top of the ridge there had suddenly appeared an eerily
tall figure in dark grey armour. And his helm had antlers.

“Beccorban, look.” She
reached behind her to grab a reassuring handful of the bearskin cloak and
trusted that the big man would follow her gaze.

“Gods,” he said softly,
and Riella’s stomach dropped through the false floor of her gut.

A hundred tall, armoured
figures stepped from behind the ridge, as well as several great lizard-like
beasts, each covered in colourful scales that caught the light. They had long
necks dotted here and there with feathers, and large elongated heads with beaks
as sharp as razors. One let out a horrible caw-shriek that sounded at once like
a bird and a banshee, and then the panic began.

The crowd on the beach
began to move, slowly at first and then picking up speed as the ones furthest
from danger caught the scent of the horror at their backs. In a strange parody
of the birds, people began to run as one body, but soon they began to scream,
for their instincts were not as honed as the birds, nor were their bodies
capable of flight, and they could not avoid what was coming. Many tripped and
fell and were trampled. Some dived into the sea, others climbed the powdery
dunes to try and make for the illusory safety of far-off Fend. Still more made
for the boats, and soon those punts close enough to the beach began to founder
and sink as many more than their limit dragged them down to the depths.

“Row harder!” snapped
Grundis, and the two sailors at the oars began to saw furiously at their
stations. The order was unnecessary. They were farther out into the bay than
any other boat and there was no way a swimmer could reach them. As long as they
didn’t stop.

“We should go back,”
offered Loster weakly. Nobody corrected him. There was no point. They could not
help.

A low, mournful horn
reached them, and the ranks of armoured knights ran forward, leaping down the
dunes with startling agility. Some of the familiar bird-like monsters sprang
forward in gigantic leaps to land amongst the fleeing crowds. They lashed with
their tails and gnashed with their teeth, and blood began to flow faster than
the ever thirsty sand could drink it up. The leader of the few mounted soldiers
gathered his paltry force together and attempted a charge, but he was caught by
the jaws of one of those terrible winged creatures and shaken until his body
parted in the middle. The others fled.

“And thus we become
exiles,” said Droswain softly.

Riella looked away. She
was no stranger to violence but this was not something she needed to see. She
noted that Beccorban had already turned away and sat with his eyes fixed ahead.
Loster too sat staring down at the grey water that had seeped through the seams
in the wooden planking to slosh around his feet.

Callistan was different.
He watched what was happening with a grim expression, yet his eyes flickered as
though he felt every blow, and Riella could imagine that he was recording all
that he saw in some great mental manuscript so that, when the time came, he
could repay it in full.

Yet strangest of all was
Droswain, for the exiled priest was watching the events on the beach with the
bright eyes of fascination, in which danced the reflection of a thousand
murdered souls.

The
Lussido
glided through the cold grey waters of the Scoldsee like a knife. It was a
narrow ship, built for speed in battle and not transport, but it had a sizeable
hold and the Captain assured them that it was the fastest and most agile ship
in Daegermund. Droswain was less kind. He told them that while
lussido
was officially the Sturmon word
for ‘slippery,’ it was also slang for ‘whore.’ The Captain himself was from
Sturm so he must have known what it meant, but perhaps he chose to be wilfully
ignorant on the subject of his ship’s honour. He was a big, friendly man,
dressed in a variety of colours that had once been bright and gay but now were
as faded as the grey waters upon which he sailed. He was lovingly called
mulco
by his crew, which Loster later
understood to mean ‘father.’ He never did find out the man’s real name but then
he saw so little of him; the captain of a man of war had little time to talk to
guests.

Riella and Mirril were
shown to a tiny cabin down on the first deck below. It was dark and fetid and smelt
of damp but it was private and they could both lie down on the cot provided if
they hugged each other close.

Callistan and Beccorban
were given a makeshift shelter on deck. In truth it was simply a stretch of
material pulled out over the decking near the wheelhouse, intended to do
nothing more than block out the sun and any other intrusive elements. Loster
himself was to share with Droswain and he felt an old panic come over him.

“
Not again,
” said Barde deep in the hollows of his mind. “
We will not let it happen again.
”

When Loster told
Droswain that he would be staying on deck instead, the priest frowned with
obvious disappointment but then bowed his head and nodded. “However you are
more comfortable, young Loster, though I do wish to speak to you when I might.”
Loster happily agreed to this and went off to find somewhere to sleep.
Unfortunately, as he quickly learned, space was limited on a fighting vessel,
and after asking around, he was directed to the space by the wheelhouse where
Beccorban knelt.

Loster approached him
tentatively, trying not to think of all the stories he had heard about the
Helhammer. If Selene had been right and this man was truly the beast of legend,
then he had seen the death of whole cities. Indeed, he had been responsible for
them. Did that make her actions right?

“
Don’t be a fool,
”
came
Barde’s hissed tone. “
The man saved you.
The least you owe him is your thanks, even if he used to eat babes for
breakfast. Go on, say something to him. It’s better to sleep here than near the
priest. Who knows what comforts a man of the gods would expect from a young
boy?
”

“Shut up!” Loster
snapped out loud, blushing as Beccorban turned to regard him quizzically. “I
don’t think I’ve thanked you yet,” he recovered quickly, averting his eyes from
that wintery gaze. Beccorban smiled then gestured for Loster to help him. He
was scrubbing the decking with a large white stone, scouring it of any filth it
had gathered. Loster knelt and picked up one of the stones. He watched as
Beccorban pinched some sand from a pot at his feet and sprinkled it on the
deck. Loster joined him and soon his hands began to feel as raw as the bright
wood beneath.

“You would think that a
military ship could keep better care of her woodwork,” the old warrior said
grimly, voice hoary with effort.

“Maybe they were busy,”
offered Loster warily.

Beccorban shook his
head. “There’s always time for the proprieties. It’s a poor ship that can’t
manage its own maintenance, but then these are exilarii, not true navy.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mercenaries, paid from
the imperial coffers to serve the empire and bear her mark. They’re not Verians
— not usually — but that doesn’t mean they fight any less well. I
once fought alongside a squad of Threshian mercenaries we had paid to war against
their own kind. They fought like cats at bathtime.”

Loster smiled and probed
the tender flesh of his hands. “You beat them, didn’t you?”

“Who, lad?”

“The Threshians, during
the Outcry.”

Beccorban nodded his
head slowly and his eyes were distant. “Aye, I did. Though not alone. We lost a
lot of good men to their blades.” He lifted his scrubbing stone in one huge
hand and pointed it at Loster. The gesture reminded Loster of Aifayne wielding
a chalk duster in the schoolroom, and he felt sadness swell in his throat. He
swallowed quickly as Beccorban continued. “They are a strange people, if truth
be told.”

“How so?” Loster found
himself listening avidly. He realised that he had nothing to fear from the big
warrior. He was tired of being afraid.

“Many ways. The men and
women speak different languages, for one.”

“That doesn’t make any
sense,” said Loster.

Beccorban shook his
head. “Not to you or me, perhaps, but to them it is as logical as night
following day.”

“How do they talk to one
another?” asked Loster incredulously.

“Oh, they both
understand each other’s language, they just respond in their own one. A man
will speak Threshian and his wife will respond in Threshiun. It sounds
complicated but then I don’t speak either, so it all sounds like the bleating
of sheep to me.”

“What else?” asked
Loster, folding his legs under him.

“Hmmm. They do not have
a king. Leastways they never
used
to
have a king, before Illis’ dominance. Daegermundi would consider that strange,
though I know those in the Southlands would be more open to the concept.
Instead the Threshians have a council made up of the greatest warriors on the
island. Every man who has twenty or more kills to his name may sit on the
council and each man carries a vote that bears equal value to the others.”

“What if they disagree?”
asked Loster.

Beccorban laughed. “They
do, often, but if a majority cannot be reached then each side chooses a
champion, and they fight.”

“Until one surrenders?”

“No, Loster. To the
death. That is the way of the Threshians. They are a warrior race. A Threshian
cohort is one of the most fearsome things you could ever have the misfortune to
see.”

Loster tried to picture
ranks of fearless warriors but his wandering mind took him back to the rows of
tall, dark warriors, lining the hill above the beach. He shuddered. “Are they
worse than the things that are chasing us?”

Beccorban bit his lip.
“I don’t know, lad, but it’s a fight I would like to see.” He grinned and that
distant look came into his eyes again. Abruptly he shook his head to clear it
of memories and his face turned to stone. He cleared his throat. “Be thankful
they’re on our side now.” He frowned. “That is, if they haven’t already been
overrun.”

Loster bit his lip.
“I’ve never really been in a fight. Not a proper one, anyway.”

“Fighting is not always
something to boast of, lad.”

Loster twisted his mouth
into a wry grin. “My father seemed to think it was. I couldn’t even kill an old
man. He was suffering and…” Loster stopped as his voice choked in his throat.
He turned away in shame.

“Who is your father?”
asked Beccorban tactfully.

“Lord Gaston Malix.”

“Ah, Elk. I never met
Lord Malix. Illis gave him that land, you know.”

“So I was told. I never
did see him fight, though he liked to preen and prance in his armour. He used
to organise tourneys and award a heavy purse to the strongest man, but he
picked the fighting partners. He never made them equal. He always seemed to pit
strength against weakness, as if he liked suffering.” Loster frowned. “He did
like suffering,” he said quietly.

“
Careful how many secrets you spill, little Loster,
” warned Barde.

Loster forced himself to
smile. “You’re not how I expected,” he said, immediately feeling foolish as
Beccorban raised his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?”

“The stories,” he
spluttered, embarrassed. “About you. They say that you did awful things.”

Beccorban grunted. “Aye.
Were that less of them were true.” Loster’s eyes grew wide at the admission but
then Beccorban smiled again. “Don’t believe everything you hear, lad.
Especially when it comes from a priest.”

Loster hung his head.
“You’re so comfortable with death, you and Callistan. The way you dealt with
those men…” he trailed off. He had meant to make it sound like an admonishment
but it left his mouth as admiration. “I’m not like you,” he said, looking up.

“And that is a good
thing, lad, but all men are equal in the end. I wasn’t made this way. At least
I don’t think I was.” The big man sighed and looked up to the canvas above his
head. “We sit beneath a great oilskin, bowed in the middle with the weight of
the dark waters it holds, and we are nothing but sharp pins travelling upwards.
If we are slow and careful, or lucky enough, we can move further upwards,
pushing the oilskin up with us and keeping the waters at bay. But eventually
every man, every peasant, every King, and even Empron will split the oilskin
above him and Death will come pouring through.”

Loster breathed out
slowly. “Your words?”

“No,” he shook his
head.“They are the words of a man I knew once. Rother Garnet. We called him the
Greathelm. Funny, but it sounded better when he said it.” He shrugged. “Maybe I
got it wrong.”

Callistan appeared as if
from nowhere, arms laden. He was carrying several blankets, what looked like a
small pillow stuffed with straw, and a corked bottle of black spirit that
sloshed as he walked.

“Where did you get
those?” asked Beccorban.

Callistan looked up as
if he had only just noticed the two of them. “I found them below decks.”

“You stole them?”

A shadow passed over
Callistan’s face and he looked at Beccorban with a gaze that could have drawn
blood. Then he shrugged. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Gods, man. We are
guests here. Have you lost your wits?”

Callistan’s left eye
twitched at the insult. “Not guests, greybeard. Paying customers. They would do
well to remember it.”

“They would do well not
to throw you overboard.”

“It matters not,” he
said. “I can swim. I think.” He turned to Loster and winked, and Loster felt
himself grinning, despite his fear of the blond horseman. Callistan was a law
unto himself.

“Just make sure nobody
finds you with their property,” said Beccorban sullenly and he went back to his
scrubbing.

Callistan settled his
bedding and then took the cork of the bottle between his teeth. It came out
with a pop and he took a swig of the black liquid. Loster watched him with
fascination. Before he could realise that he was staring, Callistan turned to
him and offered out the bottle.

“Will I like it?” he
asked.

“I doubt it.”

Loster frowned but took
the proffered bottle and held the neck under his nose. The fumes were bitter
and hot and made his eyes water. Callistan laughed at his reaction and
Beccorban looked up. “Don’t drink that, boy. It muddles with your head.”

“Not a drinker, o
bearded one?” teased Callistan.

“No, fourfinger, I am
not.”

Callistan’s smile
dropped from his face like a mask that had been ill-fitted and he snatched the
bottle back from Loster. Loster gasped and fell backwards and the tall blond
horseman stepped over him, stalking away to some other portion of the ship.

Beccorban returned to
his scrubbing and before long he was satisfied. He laid the stone back on the
pile and rolled out his bedding alongside Callistan’s. Finally he laid down and
stretched out, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. Loster
continued scrubbing for a while but soon his hands began to weep with plasma
and watery blood, so he placed his stone atop Beccorban’s and sat cross-legged
on the deck, trying to look at the old warrior without it being obvious.
Beccorban was completely silent, but something in his stillness told Loster
that the hammer-wielding warrior who had saved him was not asleep. “I think you
upset him,” he said and the sleeping giant flicked one eye open.

“Who? The horse master?
Ha!” he grunted. “I’m sure he’s heard worse. He doesn’t strike me as a vain
man, not the way he is dressed.”

Loster had to admit that
Callistan was a mess. He wore a threadbare tunic that was coated in stains and
slicks of mud and grease. Once, perhaps, it had been white but it clearly
hadn’t been washed in some time and was blackened and charred here and there by
the scars that only flames could make. His hair was filthy and matted in places
and his skin was ingrained with dirt. On his cheeks he had several small
blisters, and one eyebrow had been more or less erased, singed to brittle ashes
by the fury of a fire. Yet for all of this there was a pauper’s nobility about
the man, some regal bearing that suggested there was more to him than the eye
could see.