Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (4 page)

“You know... what they
say... 'bout these woods?” Grosh's voice was a harsh whisper, broken by the
sound of his heavy breathing. When nobody answered, the pimply teenager
continued. “Probably best I don't say anything. Don't want any of you pissing
yourselves.”

A grizzled soldier
behind Grosh spoke up. “Shut up, boy. None of us want to hear your old wives'
tales. We're not children to be frightened early to bed.”

Grosh gasped in mock
surprise. “Who said these were tales? These are things that have happened, and
still happen to those what ain't careful.”

Kiren turned and
whispered. “Go on then, Grosh. Tell me, I'm interested.”

“Gods,” mumbled the
grizzled soldier. “Why can't we just march in peace?”

Grosh ignored him and
began his tale, his voice taking on a low, authoritative tone, rich with the
confidence of folk knowledge, old as time. “This forest is ancient. Older than
Veria, older than Dalvoss even. Before man laid a single stone atop another, he
lived in this forest.”

“Every man?” Kiren
asked.

Grosh frowned at the
interruption. “No questions. I tell you what I know and you make your own
assumptions. I don't ‘ave answers to questions like that.” Kiren twisted his
mouth to the side and fell silent. He wanted to hear the rest. “Man lived in
this forest, but man was not the first thing that came to be. He was not alone
in the forest. Man is not the highest power in this land, nor has he ever been.
Some say that the other ones still live here in the depths of the forest. The
spread of man has pushed them back and they are not as strong in numbers as
they once were. Yet still they live, and they watch... and they brood. You see,
you may not think it, but we're delicious — right tasty if done right.
Think about it: you and me's just meat and bones really.”

"You're boring me
now, boy,” the veteran growled.

"Quiet! Let him
finish.” Kiren immediately regretted his tone but the old soldier, Huril, fell
silent.

Grosh went on.
"I've heard people say they've lost friends around woods like these.
There's no violence or anything like that. Just a voice, in yer head. Calls yer
name, sends you into a trance. Makes you walk away from the others until you're
alone.” He paused for effect.

It was too much for
Kiren. “And then what?”

Grosh grinned wolfishly.
“Then they come and take you. That's the last anyone ever sees of you.”

His mind lost in dark
thought, Kiren did not hear the call for a halt and so bumped into the back of
Shume, who swore and thrust an elbow backwards into his ribs.

“Watch where yer goin’,
you cowson!” he drawled.

“Quiet there!” Sarif
Morn's reedy voice called out. Shume mumbled to himself and fell silent,
staring at his boots.

Kiren peered over the
heads of those in front to see what the hold-up was. Lommocel Barin was waiting
calmly as the wiry figure of Dreng, the scout, picked his way through the
thicker undergrowth to stand before him and the Guide. He had been gone all
morning. A buzz of muted conversation began amongst the soldiers.

“Silence!” Morn cried
out again and the small group hushed, each cocking an ear to hear what happened
next.

Dreng made his report to
the two men in muted tones. The Guide turned, revealing his blue-black, angular
mask to the men behind, and spoke softly to the Lommocel. After a moment Barin
turned to address them. “Listen men, Dreng has sighted a woodsman's hut up
ahead. Not far. How long did you say, Dreng?”

“About an hour, milord.
Maybe two if the weather worsens.”

“Right.” Barin turned
and looked at the sky. To the right, the land sloped away through the trees. A
dark and ominous cloud was slowly approaching from the east. Barin sighed. “I
would say we have time to get to the hut before
that
,” he pointed, “dumps its contents on us.” The Lommocel looked
once more at the Guide as if seeking his permission then nodded to himself and
continued. “Sarif, double time if you please.” He turned away smartly, ignoring
the groans of his men with a noble’s disdain.

Kiren swallowed the
frustration bubbling up to burn the back of his throat and fell into step with
the others. This was a soldier's lot in life. Get stepped on, follow orders and
don’t ask questions. Still he couldn't help but wonder what he was missing back
at Kressel. The Empron’s visit had been unannounced and unexpected, as so many
of his actions were recently. His parade into the city had been magnificent:
bright colours, tall horses and the grim faced men of the Dremon, His Imperial
Majesty’s most formidable soldiers. There had been few enough even of them.
Most were off fighting in Carpathin, or cleaning up the Greenlands to the
south, putting down the last remnants of a once proud rebellion. Even so, the
few with the imperial party had sneered at common soldiers like Kiren. It was
not surprising. Kiren was lean and wiry and wore the breastplate and greaves of
a dead man who had been both taller and larger than him. The result was
comical. Nevertheless, he was too interested in trying to catch sight of the
Empron to take much notice of their disdain.

In his youth Empron
Illis had been a mighty warrior, staking his claim on the throne and climbing
to power with the aid of men like Bellephon Hammerfist and the Dread, as well
as a few others that it was not wise to talk of anymore. Yet as the imperial
palanquin floated past, there hadn’t been so much as the twitch of a curtain to
prove that the old man was even in there. Like many others, Kiren had been
thoroughly disappointed. Yet now he was on a mission supposedly from the Empron
himself, guided in person by one of the throne’s most trusted advisors. True,
nobody knew anything worth mentioning about their guide, yet that did not mean
he wasn’t incredibly important. That made this mission incredibly important
and, by association, Kiren too. He liked being important. It was a new feeling.

It had been by happy
accident that he was chosen for this duty at all. Morn had found the young
soldier in a tavern, morose and fuelled by ale as bitter as his disappointment,
complaining loudly — too loudly — about the Empron’s secrecy. A
nameless soldier had taken umbrage to this and had cuffed the young man on the
cheek. A brawl had broken out as several of Kiren’s friends — also drunk
— stood up to try and protect him. Several provosts led by Morn had
arrived with a dual purpose: to break up the fight and recruit a small team for
a special assignment. Short of silver and foggy of mind, Kiren had applied on
the spot, despite the protestations and mockery of his barracks mates. Their
task was to travel to the mountains to the south and find somebody. Apparently
he had been some dread warrior many years ago, when the Respini were strong and
dominated Daegermund. Now he was an old man, withered and decrepit, living by
himself in the forest.

“He's probably dead by
now anyway,” Shume had said as they set out. “Can't live on snow and squirrel
shit for long.” Whatever condition he was in, there had to be a reason why they
had sent nine men after him.

Kiren shook his head. He
didn't like to think too much about it. Out here there were more things to
worry about than men.

The Forester watched
from the undergrowth as they torched his home. It hurt more than he had thought
it would. The flames stretched towards the sky, licking the tops of the trees
and turning the snow to rain before it could hit the ground. The crimson men
had searched the hut and its surroundings for over an hour. With the weather
closing in, their commander had ordered the small wooden building set aflame.

That
was clever,
thought the Forester. There was no way that all eight of
them would have been able to ride out the coming storm in the hut. Instead of
taking the comfort for himself as many commanders would, he had removed the
temptation, replacing it with a large fire to sustain them all equally. That
showed bravery. That showed leadership.

It would not save him.

The Forester slid back
from his hiding place and blended in to the shadows. Snow was falling so
thickly now that it was hard to see more than a few yards ahead. A peal of
thunder crashed around the forest as if some god had stamped his foot to keep
warm. Soon it would be dark and cold and terrifying as a man's imagination
turned every shadow into a monster from a children's story. That was when they
should have come, just like the Sons of Iss had. He had already discarded the
notion that these were they. The Sons of Iss came dressed all in dark cloth
with long sharp knives, not in plate armour. These were something less.
Something he could deal with.

The Forester pulled his
hood over his head, becoming a great ogre of dun fur and white ice that only
resembled a man. He brought his breathing under control and took one last look
at the glowing fire that marked the ashes of his memory, before disappearing
into the growing shadows.

The wind began to howl.

Kiren leant in close to
Huril, shielding himself from the biting wind. It seemed to be a living thing,
screaming in his ears as its icy fingers searched for every gap and
crevice. After burning down the small hut, Barin had ordered the men to
huddle close. Only a few of the older men — about three of them —
had brought furs. The rest sat frozen and miserable, every bit of exposed skin
wrapped in whatever they could find. The Guide had disappeared an hour before,
hissing something in Barin’s ear and then melting into the bushes like a
shadow. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off of Kiren’s shoulders, but he
did not know why.

Dreng returned from his
scout with a brace of winter hares. Whilst the others ransacked the hut, the
wiry tracker skinned and prepared his catch, storing the still warm meat in his
pack and scraping the skins clean. He sat now opposite Kiren with the white
furs wrapped around his hands, each pelt still tinged pink with gore. At any
other time Kiren's stomach would have lurched at the thought of touching the
oily, recently dead flesh, but now he glared at Dreng with jealous eyes as his
own hands threatened to turn blue.

These few days in the
mountains had been miserable. Now it seemed that they would all freeze to
death, their mission a failure. They had been outfoxed by one old man who was
probably somewhere warm and dry with a full belly. If this weather continued he
would return home to eight living statues in compensation for the loss of his
dwelling.

Barin stood away from
the group, leaning against a tree with his cloak wrapped around him. Kiren
wasn't sure whether the Lommocel was dead or not. It was hard to look in any
one place for longer than a moment yet he wasn’t about to get up and check. The
snow was flying sideways and stung his cheeks with its force. Kiren wanted to
close his eyes but every time he did so he felt incredibly tired. Before the
storm struck, Barin had given them a short speech about staying awake. To fall
asleep in this cold was death, he had said, and he tasked every man with
keeping his neighbour alert. Nevertheless, it was hard to keep the mind active
when all there was to do was sit and wait. Kiren turned his head and looked at
the men around him. All were so covered in snow that their crimson armour was
frozen and powdered white. In fact it was hard to tell them apart.

“You still with me,
boy?” Huril's gruff voice penetrated the fog of Kiren's thoughts.

“Still here,” he said
and Huril grunted in response. Kiren had never been this close to the old
soldier. He smelt of tobacco and sweat. Strangely he found that comforting. It
reminded him of a tavern; the smell of woodsmoke, cooking grease and packed
humanity. Somewhere warm.

He looked at the men
around him one by one. Next to Huril there was Millar, the farmer's son turned
recruit. Next to him sat Sarif Morn and then Shume and Dreng. Next to him was
Grosh... was that Grosh? Yes, it must have been. Then... Shume. Kiren shook his
head. He must have counted wrong. There was no mistaking that the figure to his
left was Shume. He had been staring at the back and side of his face all day
and knew every inch of that jowly expanse, even huddled as it was into a cloak.
Who was the other figure, then? The Guide? No, he was far too broad to be the
Guide. Besides, the Guide had left an hour ago. He had to have counted wrong.

Kiren slowly turned his
head and stared at the large man between Sarif Morn and Dreng. He was one of
the few who had brought furs, although they were caked in frost and snow. He
sat hunkered down, staring at the ground, his hands hidden inside the folds of…
what was that? A bearskin? Kiren carefully counted the party in his head.
Barin, Morn, Dreng... Huril, Grosh, Millar, himself and Shume. Eight men.

But there were nine in
this clearing.

Taking a deep breath,
Kiren stood just as the ninth man did. At full height the figure was well over
six foot, and built like a giant. The Impostor's huge arms unfolded from
underneath his furs, revealing a long and wicked looking blade. Kiren made to
scream but no sound reached his throat, and he could only watch as the giant
slashed his sword backwards, once left, then right. Two heads landed in the
snow, glassy eyes staring upwards at the black sky. The next movement was a
blur. The Impostor leapt with surprising grace and speed, hacking to either
side with a callous efficiency until all six men lay broken and bleeding, dead
or dying on the snow.