Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (38 page)

“Stop! Stop at once!”
The young provost’s panic was evident but Callistan could not hear him and
there was little chance he would have stopped if he could. Instead he smacked
the flat of his hand across Crucio’s rump and, with a great bellow of protest,
the great warhorse leaped clean over a cookfire, scattering the confused
soldiers there. The horse landed gracefully on the loose scree of the beach and
powered on. A pebble flung by one of its hooves flew backwards like a slinger’s
shot and cracked off of a metal cooking pot with a deafening
gong
. It left a silver scar on the black
metal and Riella winced to think what would have happened if it had hit a
person.

“He’s coming for the
Empron! Stop him!” The provost screamed at the men in Callistan’s wake and they
doubled their pace. The first provost had disappeared inside the tent, whilst
Callistan suddenly seemed to realise he was being followed and so reined Crucio
down to a trot. As he came face to face with the provost’s spear, Callistan did
not stop but instead hauled Crucio to one side so that he wheeled back around
to look at his pursuers. The provost, taken aback by the wild horseman’s casual
dismissal of him, let the tip of his spear droop. Then anger took hold and he
raised it again, stepping forward to plunge the long steel point into Crucio’s
flank.

“Calm, lad! He means no
harm.” Beccorban, still with his hood up, appeared at the young soldier’s side
and gently patted the spear down again. The provost looked at the big man and
saw the power there. He lowered his weapon, then shivered as a fragile voice
not made for high volumes tore from the tent behind him.

“What in all Hel is
going on out here?” The leather flaps that formed the entrance to the tent
exploded outwards and a lean, crooked man in ill-fitting robes of dazzling
white came out. He would have been tall had he stood upright but his head
seemed to jut outwards as though it had been attached incorrectly. His left arm
was bent close to his body and was oddly stiff. None of the descriptions Riella
had heard of him were right.

What little she knew of
Verian history was mostly bled down from Respin, the northern neighbours of her
Kaleni homeland. She had heard that the Helhammer was a great slavering beast
who ate babes. On meeting Beccorban, she had discovered that he was just a man —
though still as intimidating as only the Scourge of Iss could be. Illis’
character was painted in blacks and whites. To the Verian soldiers that had
swaggered around Lanark he was a hero, kind and noble. To those Respini brave
enough to speak freely — usually visitors to her bed — Illis was a
poisonous coward, an usurper and a murderer.

As she looked upon this
strange, crooked man, she thought how different he was to Beccorban. The
Helhammer was big and strong and age was simply a number to him. Illis looked
broken. His face was unbearded, as was the fashion amongst the nobility, but it
gave him the perverse appearance of gaunt youth. It looked as though he had not
slept in a long time: his bright blue eyes were ringed with dark blotches that
bled into grey skin, starved of sunlight. His nose was flat and wide and grew
upwards into a large forehead that sprouted steel grey hair, pulled back into a
greasy knot at the nape of his neck. It was the only part of him that could be
considered neat. “Visitors, hmmm? Visitors for me?” Illis spoke to no one in
particular, though his eyes lingered on every face before him with the hunger
of a wolf selecting choice cuts. “Visitors, Xinos, and you did not tell me.”
His voice was disapproving.

“Not visitors, Your
Majesty, trespassers.”

“What?” Illis frowned.
“Trespassers! In my camp?! Come to kill me. Aha!” Riella felt Beccorban stir
beside her. “Nonsense, Xinos. They have a little girl. Even the Burned Ones
would not stoop so low.”

“There are other threats
than the Sons of Iss, Your Majesty.”

“Pah!” Illis waved away
the young provost’s protests and then gasped in surprise. Beccorban squirmed.
“Lord Callistan.” He took an involuntary step backwards. “I did not expect to
see you so far north.”

As one the party turned
in shock to stare at the blond horseman, who frowned and looked bashful. “Your
Majesty,” he mumbled.

“You’re a lord?!”
Beccorban boomed, forgetting in his surprise that he was supposed to be in
disguise. He tore his hood off and marched over to Crucio, wrapping one hand
around the loose reins as though he were afraid Callistan might ride away and
thus escape his scrutiny. “The Lord of what?” he demanded.

“Blackwatch,” Droswain
answered for him, his voice husky with revelation. “You are Callistan Imbros.”

“You there!” Illis
pointed at Beccorban and Riella winced in anticipation. “Unhand that horse. You
are speaking to one of my Marhsalls!”

Beccorban let go and
stood staring grimly at Illis, waiting for him to recognise the man who had
helped build his empire.

“There, good man,” Illis
continued. “Come, Lord Callistan, we have much to discuss.” The Empron turned
with a flourish and disappeared into his tent. Callistan leapt down lightly
from Crucio’s back, pausing to slap the reins into Beccorban’s still open palm.
He shouldered past the old warrior and vanished behind Illis.

There was a brief
silence and then Beccorban said softly, “He didn’t recognise me. He saw me but
he didn’t know who I was.”

“Well it has been a few
years, Helhammer,” said Droswain dryly. He was trying to hide a grin and Riella
wanted to wipe it off but she was too shocked to be baited.

She went and stood next
to Beccorban. “It has been a long time. You said so yourself.”

He shook his head. “No,
lass. We were as brothers once. Something’s not right.”

Riella laid a small hand
on the big hammerman’s arm and squeezed gently. “Let’s go and rest. We can talk
about it if you’d like.”

Beccorban looked down at
her as though he had only just seen her and nodded once. They moved off,
leaving Droswain still arguing for an audience. Riella allowed herself one more
glance at the tent. A lord, indeed. Now he was truly gone. Out of reach even if
he stayed. She looked up at the giant striding beside her. He had fought his
way to the top after starting at the bottom. What had she done?
I murdered a drunk with his trews down
,
she thought.

She suddenly felt very
alone.

“Come, sit.”

As Callistan moved into
the dark interior of the tent, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. They
had laid great wooden planks on the ground to hide the stones and sand and then
covered them with fur. Opulent indeed, but then this was the Empron before him,
ruler of all in Daegermund worth ruling; a man he should remember but could
not.

Illis kept it dim: there
were a few small candles dotted around, though each was little more than a
stubby mess of frozen wax. It was oppressively hot and Callistan immediately
felt sweat begin to bead on his skin. He counted four braziers of blackened
iron that glowed a sunset orange.

Illis gestured again for
Callistan to take a seat and took one of his own behind a large wooden desk of
carved rosewood. It was a lovely thing engraved with flowers and animals and
topped in a dark, red leather. Callistan took a simple wooden chair opposite
Illis that creaked lightly as he sat down. A fluttering noise behind him made
him turn. One of the provosts made his way into the tent and stood straight,
hands resting on his weapon.

“No, thank you Pavlen.
We will be quite alright.” Illis shooed him away. “Go and find the Lord
Callistan’s companions. See that they’re fed.”

“But—”

“No buts, man! Go!”
Pavlen hesitated for a moment more then stormed from the tent. Callistan could
not help but grin at the young soldier’s irritation. “Now, where were we? Ah,
yes — a drink?” Illis leapt to his feet with a sudden energy and made his
way to an ornate crystal decanter on a sideboard. It was filled with a dark red
liquid that looked as thick as blood.

“Just water please, Your
Majesty.” It was so hot in here that Callistan could not stomach the thought of
wine.

Illis hesitated,
shrugged, and moved over to a simple pewter jug. He poured a healthy amount
into a wooden beaker, spilling some in his haste. “You are not into the, uh,
stronger stuff? Hmmmm?”

Callistan shook his
head. “No, Your Majesty. I haven’t had a drink in…” he spread his hands,
“hours.”

A whimper escaped Illis
and Callistan assumed it was supposed to be a laugh. “A joke, yes, a joke. Very
good.” The Empron returned to his seat and set the beaker down clumsily on the
table.

Callistan reached out to
take it and as he did he caught a scent of something familiar that he could not
quite place. He picked up the beaker and took a careful sip of the unpleasantly
warm liquid.

“Tell me, what brings
you here?” said Illis. “How go things in the south?”

Callistan knitted his
brows and felt the tug of a cut above his left eye. “Do you mean the invasion?
I thought you had come from Kressel, Your Majesty.”

“Uh, yes. Kressel.
Indeed.” He looked into the distance. “I thought it best to get out of the way.
Leave things to the others. Made it out on the — oh, now that I think of
it, it doesn’t have a name.” He waved his right arm in the air. “The flagship.
Big ship. Came here.” He returned his gaze to Callistan. “So what progress are
we making?”

Callistan placed the
beaker back on to the table. Was he being mocked? “We are losing, Your
Majesty.”

“Losing?” Illis’ tone
was wary. “Have you not come from Temple?”

Callistan shook his
head, and for a moment he caught a flicker of panic in the bright blue eyes of
the Empron. Illis stood abruptly and turned his back on Callistan. He pulled
the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured himself a healthy dose of the
blood-red wine into an equally ornate crystal tumbler.

Callistan narrowed his
eyes. He could feel his pulse beginning to quicken. “You know we have been
invaded, Your Majesty, that the major cities of Veria are in the hands of an
enemy greater than anything we’ve ever faced. Why then, do you hide away in the
north?”

“Hide? I, uh, I have
done everything I could. Are you displeased?”

Callistan’s mind raced.
“Displeased? You have abandoned your people. Left them to die at the hands of
demons.”

“Demons? I…you can’t
speak to me like that, I am the Em—”

Callistan stood and the
squeal of his chair on the wooden floor cut Illis short. “Droswain, the priest
outside, called them Echoes but there are others. There are those that steal
the guise of men and walk among us wearing their flesh.” Callistan had been
turning that familiar smell over and over again in his head, swirling it around
a phantom tongue as though sampling a fine wine. He began to walk towards the
Empron and the smell grew again, though now it mingled with the scent of the
candles and the strong scent of cooking meat from the fires outside.

Illis turned to him and
his eyes widened as he saw how close the horseman was. “What are you doing?”

“Open your mouth,”
Callistan’s voice was low as he struggled to stay calm.

“What?”

“Open your mouth,” he
said again, louder, taking another step towards the crooked man in front of
him.

“I shall do no such
thing. Now sit down.”

“I told you to open your
mouth.” A part of Callistan told him he was committing treason but another part
urged him on and that other part had sung in a louder voice of late.

“Remember who you are
speaking to!” Illis tried to sound intimidating but ended up sounding like a
petulant child instead.

A noise made Callistan
spin on his heel, leg muscles bunched.

Pavlen stood there, eyes
wide and one hand on his sword.

“What is it, Pavlen?”
Illis asked with audible relief.

Pavlen tore his eyes
from Callistan and looked past him at the Empron. “The rider, Your Highness, he
has returned.”

“The gods smile on us,
Pavlen.” He brushed past Callistan and followed the provost outside, and as he
did, Callistan caught another whiff of that oh so familiar smell. He grimaced.

It was the scent of
cloves.

They travelled in a
long, strung-out column, with the Empron riding by curtained carriage somewhere
in the middle. The pace was excruciatingly slow and though it was now falling
dark, they were still close enough to the sea to feel its influence. The air
smelled of salt and damp vegetation, and here and there seagulls wheeled and
landed to peck at things that looked like food from above. Riella paced
silently alongside the weary conscripts, her long legs matching their armoured
ones. It was no wonder the pace was slow. These were not the grim-faced men of
the Imperial Dremon — they were far to the south in Carpathin, probably
all dead by now. Veria had only these farmboys and idle scum to fight for her,
swept from the gutters of Temple and Kressel and Iero and Osk to form clumsy
crimson ranks. And now they weren’t even in the right country. She shook her
head. How had it come to this?

Mirril tripped up ahead
and one of the nearby men laughed. A growl of warning from the looming mass of
Beccorban made him fall silent and march on with renewed interest in his toes.
Riella smiled to herself. The Helhammer was at his brooding best, grumbling
aloud and snapping at anyone unfortunate enough to stumble within range. She
knew why he was frustrated. He had been a warrior when most of these so-called
soldiers were little more than an impure thought. He was taking their general
lack of discipline as a personal insult.

Earlier, as they sat by
a cooking fire waiting for Callistan, Beccorban had told them of his
relationship with Illis. It seemed like it had been cathartic for the old
warrior, like pulling a thorn from an infected wound, and they all gathered
around, eagerly drinking in every detail — all except Droswain who sat
outside their circle, trying to look uninterested. Beccorban spoke of how he
had met the man who was to be the Empron, how they had fought together as
mercenaries in lands over the sea. He spoke of the rebellion and Illis’ capture
by the Higard, how he had pulled his friend from the dungeons after the best
part of a year, broken and crippled and changed. In the years following his
coronation, Illis had arranged the deaths of anyone powerful enough to oppose
him. That had included two great heroes of the rebellion: Bellephon Hammerfist
who had died mysteriously in his sleep, and the Dread, found slain with his
caravan, surrounded by piles of dead bandits.

“I remember watching
Alix, the man others called the Dread, throw ten men from the walls at Ruum,
and all without a weapon,” Beccorban said wistfully. “He joined us on the first
day in Kressel — he worked in the docks, you see. A proud and brave
Verian. Never have I seen one so brave.”

“Why did they call him
the Dread?” asked Loster, his mouth full of roast meat. Whatever trials they
faced, the Empron’s stores were as bountiful as ever.

“I don’t really recall
why, lad. I know he was a bastard to fight — used whatever he could get
his hands on. I don’t think I ever saw him finish a battle with the same weapon
he started it with.” Beccorban chuckled and Riella noted how Droswain rolled
his eyes. “It was Alix who broke the line at Ruum, smashed right through the
Higard ranks and kept on going. He won the day.” He smiled and then his smile
became a frown. “Killed by bandits. Ha! Murdered, more like. He helped win
Illis an empire and our Empron repaid him with one hundred swords in his back
on a dusty road in the forest.” He spat.

They all fell silent for
a moment.

“I’ve never heard of the
Dread,” said Mirril with authority.

Beccorban shrugged. “Few
outside Veria have. Much about him was buried on Illis’ orders. In truth, he
was a man of the moment. He rose and fell with the rebellion. Aptly named for it,
if you ask me.”

“What do you mean?”
Loster forced another question around a mouthful of pork.

“Dread,” said Beccorban.
“It’s a fleeting emotion.”

“Is it?” asked Riella.
“I’m scared of the Echoes. We all are.” Mirril nodded but Loster looked away.

“For now, yes,” said
Beccorban, “and you will be again, but there are moments when you don’t think
about them. Fear is a temporary emotion that can give you strength, or speed if
you use it well. But if you let it, it can crush you, as it has your blond
friend.” He nodded in the direction of the Empron’s crimson tent. “It has sent
him mad.”

“Callistan?” Riella
asked incredulously. “You think Callistan is frightened?”

“More than anyone.”

At that moment, the
horseman had erupted from the Empron’s tent and made straight for Crucio,
ignoring any questions they had thrown at him. Soon afterwards they had set
off, into the hills. Now he was somewhere at the head of the column. A lord
once again. Cold. Aloof. Riella smiled as she saw Mirril trying to match the
pace of the soldiers alongside. It was a wonderful thing about children that
they could put themselves elsewhere, could forget all the wrongs committed
against them and live in the moment. She sighed. For the moment she was alone.
Even Beccorban was avoiding her.

After Callistan had
stormed past, Beccorban had expressed his desire to take the fight back to the
enemy. “Look at us, almost half a thousand strong, and not even a thought of
going south.”

Droswain almost choked
on a plump chicken he was devouring. It had left a greasy stain around his
mouth and it made Riella’s stomach turn. “Go south? Are you mad?”

“Is it madness to want
to fight for your country, her people?”

“Please don’t tell me
you’ve discovered empathy, Beccorban. The only thing waiting for us in Veria is
death.”

“What would you know of
it, priest? Give me two hundred good men, a hundred even. I could—”

“You could do what? Die
nobly? I’m sure it would be a thing of legend, Helhammer, but it would be a
waste of resources.”

“Resources!” Beccorban’s
voice was incredulous.

“Yes, resources.”
Droswain put down the stripped bone he had been gnawing on and wiped his hands
on his robes. “Look around you, you fool.” He spat. “There are no good men
left. Illis sent all the good men to Carpathin on a pointless errand and almost
lost the Greenlands to a bunch of angry rebel peasants in the process. Are your
wits so addled that you think we can meet the Echoes head on?” Droswain lowered
his voice. “Is this all because he didn’t recognise you?”

Beccorban roared with anger
and jumped to his feet, kicking the small blackened pot above the fire off its
stand to bleed its contents on to the beach. Droswain looked up and closed his
eyes, as though expecting to be struck but, oddly, Riella found herself leaping
in front of the small pointy-headed priest.

“Enough, Beccorban,” she
said. “He’s right.”

Beccorban’s eyes
narrowed. “What did you say to me, girl?”

“I said he’s right,
about Veria. We can’t save her. Now sit down before you attract too much
attention.”

Beccorban breathed out
slowly and returned to his seat. There was a look of betrayal in his eyes.

“Time, Helhammer,” said
Droswain, once again charming. “We need as much time as you can give us.”
Watching him spin his webs, it was no surprise that he could work a crowd, and
though Riella hated him for it he still made sense. He stood and looked around
the circle. “We go north. Somewhere the Echoes cannot reach us. Remember, we
have Loster. We have to keep him safe.”

To his credit, Loster
blushed a dark pink, and Riella felt a pang of something other than distaste
for him. It felt like pity.

As she walked now
alongside the column, Riella thought about Callistan. How could he leave them
now?

“I thought perhaps you
might need some company.” Riella turned to see Droswain alongside her, looking
up with a grin that begged to be wiped from his face.

“Why are you not with
Loster? Has he grown sick from your honeyed words?” she asked sweetly.

“No, my lady. All my
honeyed words are laced with sobering truth.”

“I am no lady. You don’t
have to call me that.”

“No.” Droswain put his
hands behind his back. “Alas, one not a lady and then another suddenly a lord.
What a conundrum.”

Riella stared into the
side of Droswain’s head, but he did not seem to notice.

“Did you want to hear a
nasty rumour about our mutual friend?”

“I don’t think I want
anything from you, Droswain,” Riella snarled, more than she had meant to.

“Oh, I think you will
want this. I would have let you know sooner had I known that our Callistan was
the
Callistan.”

Riella bit her lip.
Droswain was a snake but his forked tongue promised information she wanted. The
priest looked sidelong at her and he must have sensed her hunger for he
grinned. She wanted to hit him.

“You know by now that
the noble Lord of Blackwatch rides among us — after all, they don’t teach
you how to ride like that as a farmhand, do they? Callistan is also an Imperial
Marshall. He was recently made Grand Domestic of the Dalukar, no less. A
formidable warrior. It’s no wonder our beloved Illis took such a shine to him.”

“He knows none of this,”
Riella protested. “He is an amnesiac.”

“Yes, so I have heard,
but he is not only lacking in memories.” He paused for dramatic effect.

“Go on,” Riella prompted
impatiently.

“He is a commoner.”

It was said so abruptly
that Riella took a moment to process it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Callistan
is not of noble blood. He tried to join the Dremon as a youth but failed the
tests. To be fair, few people reach the final test anyway, but even those who
do aren’t aware what they are being tested on. You see the prospective dremani
undergo gruelling physical challenges. Callistan passed every one and as the
Lord of a noble house he was selected for the officer corps. At the age of
nineteen. I can’t tell you what an achievement that would have been.” He leaned
in close to her and she smelt his sour breath. “He failed. He failed because a
officer of the Dremon is tested for noble blood and Callistan’s was as
commonplace as muddy water. Not a drop.” He cackled. “Of course he never found
out why he failed. Only the High Priest knew and he wasn’t obliged to tell
anyone — but then Reptos was a drinker, and I was his understudy.”

Riella looked down into
Droswain’s beady eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugged. “Since this
morning’s revelation, I simply had to share it with someone. Who better than
you? Oh, by the way, I wouldn’t mention it to him. He already knows his mother
was a slut. No point telling him his true father was a peasant.” He strode off
without a backward glance and left her feeling light-headed.

Beccorban appeared at
her side. “What was that all about?”

She looked up at him and
could see the concern in his eyes. “I don’t think I can tell you,” she said
lamely and he stalked away with a curse. She wanted to go after him and explain
why but her mind was in turmoil. If Droswain was telling the truth, then it
meant that Callistan was no more noble than her, though she wondered why it
brought her no comfort.

Beccorban was in a foul
mood. First he had faced the shame of anonymity — a wound worse than ten
thousand blades. Next he had discovered that the blond lunatic was a noble. Why
that made him angry he couldn’t be sure but it had something to do with the
girl. Callistan’s claims of memory loss may have fooled her but Beccorban was
too canny for that. There was some design to the horseman’s convenient amnesia.
He was too driven, as though he was looking for something. Beccorban grunted.
He was also reckless and a dangerous fighter. The Helhammer could not remember
the last man to best him in personal combat. Now that he thought about it, the
last man had probably been Greathelm, and he had died in the sand with a dagger
twisted into his guts.
A dagger you put
there,
he thought.

Even the boy was lost to
him. That damned priest had ensnared Loster in a great leathery wing and it
irked him. He liked the lad. He had potential; the events on the
Lussido
had proved that, even if he
wasn’t the champion Droswain sought.

Beccorban elbowed his
way in between two ranks of soldiers so that he could reach the other side of
the dirt road they marched upon. Their path curved as it climbed the hill and
he wanted to get a broader picture of this shambles of a column. One of the
conscripts opened his mouth to protest as Beccorban shoved through, then
quickly snapped it shut as he realised who it was.
They’re scared of you,
he thought.
Good. Maybe they will be less scared of the enemy.

There were only a few
hundred in the column, but it was strung out over nearly half a mile, with no
thought towards order or rank. Far too long. Vulnerable. It did not help that
the roads here were old and uncared for. It had been centuries since the mighty
Dalvossi legions had marched here. Now only small bands of skirmishers
remained, good for nothing but the odd pointless raid in Verian or Respini
territory. Even Illis’ hunger for land had not stretched far past Fend. There
was nothing here. Just a miserable land of ruins and ghosts.