Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (41 page)

Droswain stepped
forward. “Very wise, Beccorban. Now we really must think about going—” he
stopped as an out-of-breath soldier burst through the crowd.

“Sir,” he gasped,
fighting for breath. “Enemy sighted on the ridge.”

Beccorban felt ice form
in his stomach and then quickly melt. This was it. He sighed. “All men to the
courtyard. Prepare for battle.”

“What?” spluttered
Droswain. “Battle? You’re going to fight them?”

Beccorban turned to him,
curling his lip so that the little man might see his disdain. “Get somewhere
safe, priest.”

Droswain was red in the
face, quivering with rage. “This isn’t about your glory, old man! You’re
risking more than you know!”

Beccorban shouldered
past him and turned to Loster. “With me, lad.” He was glad when Loster simply
nodded and stepped to his side. They both stalked from the room, pursued by
Droswain’s cries, ringing hollowly behind them.

“You deny the gods
themselves, Beccorban! We are all going to die!”

Loster followed
Beccorban out into the courtyard. He was going to have to fight and he did not
even have a weapon.

“
I wonder what we taste like,
” pondered Barde. “
Is it white meat like a fowl, or salty and sweet like swineflesh?
”

“Shut up!” he said
aloud.

“What, lad?” Beccorban
called over his shoulder as he walked.

“Nothing, nothing,”
mumbled Loster with his head down.
What
are you doing?

The courtyard was a hive
of activity, with conscripts in their painted armour running back and forth as
their unseasoned officers gave commands. Loster followed as Beccorban stormed
over the mossy flagstones, beckoning for Operin to join him. It seemed the
young lommocel was now second-in-command. The big hammerman shrugged off his
bearskin cloak and handed it to a nearby soldier. “I want as many torches as we
have. Place them in a line across the ground.” He spread his arms. “Here.”

“Torches, sir, uh, yes,”
Operin swallowed and Loster watched the bony lump in his throat move up and
down. “The men should all have their flints with them.”

“Good, see to it.”

Operin saluted and
hurried off, piping his new orders to a nearby sarif.

Loster turned at the
sound of heavy breathing and saw Droswain approaching. The priest grabbed
Loster’s arm possessively but he only had eyes for Beccorban.

“Beccorban, you cannot
do this. You’re putting us all at risk. You’re putting,” he waggled Loster’s arm
like a puppeteer, “our only hope in danger.”

Beccorban ignored him
and began to march towards the highest section of wall. It was crumbled in
places where the stone had given way before the onslaught of the elements and
there were only a few stairs still intact.

“Vain fool!” Droswain
spat, stalking after Beccorban and dragging Loster with him by the sleeve.

“Danger is upon us,
priest,” Beccorban called as he climbed. When he was some ten feet off the
ground, he turned and unhooked his hammer from the thongs that held it. He
looked down at Loster and Loster felt pride thicken in his throat. How could he
do anything else but follow this man? He gently released himself from
Droswain’s grip and stepped closer, looking back up at the old warrior.

Beccorban winked at him
and said, “Watch this, lad. If we survive the night, you’ll like as not hear a
false rendition.”

“What are you going to
do?” asked Loster.

Beccorban smiled. “I’m
about to make you a legend.”

Loster’s face suddenly
felt heavy and his stomach plunged downwards. He opened his mouth to stop
Beccorban but it was too late.

“Men! Hear me!”
Beccorban raised both his arms and arrested all activity in the courtyard. His
was a voice used to commanding attention and it had not failed him. The men who
were furthest away began to move closer until there was a sizeable crowd
focusing on their new leader. “You know me,” Beccorban continued. “Some know my
weapon, most know my dark deeds, fewer still know my face, but all of you know
my name.” The soldiers moved closer still. “I am the Helhammer,” he thundered,
“and I have known enemies legion. None has been greater than that which we face
here today but I have not been bested yet.”

“You died!” came a
lonely voice from the crowd and there were grumbles of displeasure but
Beccorban simply laughed — a great resonant chuckle that tickled the
small bones in Loster’s ears and made him feel more nauseous.

“Died?!” Beccorban asked
the crowd incredulously. “Do you not see me here before you?” he laughed again.
“No, brave Verian, you are mistaken, for I cannot be killed.” He climbed one
more step and the light from the torches below him burned a huge black shadow
on to the wall behind so that with one movement he appeared twice as large. “We
fight for our country, we fight for our lives, but most importantly we fight
for each other. Forget all else. Soon it will be you and me and the enemy.” He
grinned. “But we have a secret weapon. Loster, come up here.” The big man
gestured for Loster to join him on the stairs.

“
Go on,
” said Barde, “
make a
fool of yourself.
” Loster gritted his teeth and clambered up beside
Beccorban. A groan came from the crowd.

“He’s just a boy!”
someone cried and Loster flushed bright red.

“And I suppose you are a
grandfather, Plisko?” scoffed Beccorban. “I have more years in my beard than
you do all over.” A few laughed and Loster wondered how the old warrior had
learnt their names already. “Calm, friends. I am not here idly. I was called
down from the lonely mountains — or from the grave if you’d prefer.” More
laughter. “The gods foresaw this invasion. They knew we would be driven hence
and so they sent us hope.” He clapped his hands on Loster’s shoulders and the
young acolyte almost fell forward with the force of it. He could see a few men
laughing but still more were looking at him with desperate hope on their faces.
Loster did not know which was worse. He felt like he was being picked apart.

“
Oh, how I love a good show,
”
said
Barde.

“I would not be here if
it was not for Loster. This
boy,
as
you call him, saved my life. He discovered a traitor on the ship that brought
us from Fend. His actions saved every man aboard. The Echoes are afraid of him,
as they are afraid of us.”

Beccorban let go of
Loster’s shoulders and stepped in front of him, and he sensed that his part in
the pantomime was over. He looked at the faces of the soldiers, some four
hundred of them. Not ten minutes ago, they had all been afraid for their lives;
now they watched Beccorban as though he had taken flight and was offering them
all winged rescue from the approaching enemy.

“I did not come here to
die beside you. I came here to do what I do best.” He raised his hammer into
the air. “To kill!” The men cheered enthusiastically. “Remember, men, the
Helhammer picks his battles, and he chose to be here because this will be the
greatest victory in Veria’s history. It is here, on this ground, that we will
break the enemy. We will show them how real Verians fight. I have already sent
riders out to gather help and I know that not two hours from here is a Dalvossi
warband, itching to throw their weight into the struggle. They will be here
before the sun rises but I will be damned before I let a Dalvossi do my work
for me. Fight! Fight for each other! Fight for me!” Beccorban drew in a great
breath and screamed, “Give me till dawn!” A great roar went up from the crowd
and the noise bounced back off of the ancient stone walls until it was
deafening.

Beccorban turned to
Loster with a triumphant smile but Loster could not muster the strength to
return it. He leant in close to the old warrior. “A Dalvossi warband? I didn’t
know you sent out riders.”

Beccorban patted him on
the shoulder. “Couldn’t spare the men, lad, but a little bit of belief never
hurt anybody.”

“You’re lying to them,”
Loster hissed, trying to ignore the sea of beaming faces applauding below him.

“I’m giving them
something to fight for,” said Beccorban and there was just enough ice in his
tone to warn Loster off further protest. He smiled again. “Besides, you’re
chosen by the gods. Who knows? They might send us some help after all.” With
that, Beccorban leapt lithely off of his stage to land like a man with half his
years. He strode through the parting crowd and gathered his officers.

Loster climbed down more
gingerly. A few men offered him shouts of encouragement but he could not meet
the need in their eyes.

A horn blew in the
distance and it sent shivers of terror down Loster’s spine. Men began to run
this way and that, readying themselves for the first sight of their foe. Loster
felt an overwhelming urge to piss.

“
You’re going to die,
” said Barde.

Somebody shoved the worn
handle of an old sword into his hand and he looked up, shocked to see that it
was Droswain. The small priest’s face was grim. “I’m sorry, Loster,” he said.
“I never meant for it to end like this.” He stalked away and Loster was left
alone, staring down at the dark and pitted blade in his hand. He felt sick.

Barde chuckled. “
At least you’ll have company.
”

The soldiers watched in
silence as the Rider approached, threading his way over the broken ground
before the walls. His tall frame was swathed in robes of midnight blue laced
with gold that draped over his mount, a large horse of some eighteen hands,
swamping the beast and only serving to emphasise the Rider’s intimidating
height.

Beccorban had arranged
them all into a line three ranks deep, positioning as many men as he could
spare behind as much of the wall as was left standing. On the left flank the
wall was still almost twenty feet high and bore the weight of one of the two
towers. The tower itself leant crookedly in towards the courtyard below, but it
made the whole ruin feel more complete. Here Beccorban had placed twenty men to
act as archers, each crouching behind the crumbling battlements with arrows
nocked. Looking up at the bowmen, Loster considered how much damage their
missiles would actually do. None of them had expressed any proficiency with
either the small hunting bows or wind-up crossbows they had found in the wagon
and it was unlikely that any shots would even be able to pierce the Echoes’
plate. Several of them seemed to be among the largest of the conscripts and
Loster wondered if their weight and strength would be better served down in the
battle on the ground.

“
Master tactician are we now, little brother?
” mocked Barde.

Loster bit the inside of
his cheek. Barde was right. Beccorban knew what he was doing. Archers were good
for morale. They delivered death from a distance, raining down arrows to kill
without prejudice. An effective archer could drive fear into the heart of any
foe, though, as he watched the Rider close, Loster doubted the Echoes were
easily frightened.

The man in line next to
him blew his breath out in a great long huff. Loster wished he could rid
himself of all his nerves with one such breath. His guts felt like they had
been tied in knots. Where he stood the wall was a little over knee height,
rising higher as it crept to his left before scaling up to the battlements and
the crooked tower. Loster leaned forward, touching the tips of his borrowed
greaves to the warty stone.

“Don’t do that, boy,”
said a newly promoted vetero. He could not have been much older than Barde
would have been had he escaped the Widowpeak. “You’ll scratch the paint off.”

Loster nodded and
mumbled an apology, standing back upright. As he did, his helmet slipped down
over his eyes. It was far too big for him, greasy with the sweat of all its
previous owners

“
They don’t make armour for boys and cowards,
” said Barde
.
”
They
don’t have need for it.
”

Loster set it properly
on his head again and tightened the chinstrap. No one had laughed at him.
Humour was not welcome here.

The Rider came close
enough to hail and pulled down the hood of his robes. Loster and not a few of
the men around him gasped at the ghoulish, stretched features and pointed ears.
The Rider had long black hair tied into a ponytail, draped over one shoulder
like a dark serpent.

“Who speaks for you?”
said the Echo in curiously accented Verian. Though he was not shouting, his
voice carried to every man there.

Beccorban stepped
forward from the centre of the line. “I do. Whom do you speak for?”

The Rider grinned and
Loster felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Greetings, Hammer. I am
sorry I missed you in the Dantus. Tell me, did Kaluphet die well?” His tone was
conversational but there was nothing friendly in his eyes and Loster wondered
if this was how a field mouse felt when it heard the owl’s triumphant screech.

“He was eaten by
wolves,” said Beccorban and Loster winced, though the Rider showed no evidence
of offence.

“A shame,” the Rider
said. “Eaters should not be eaten.”

“Gods, they’re going to
eat us,” hissed the soldier next to Loster, but nobody replied to him. All eyes
were on Beccorban.

“I am here to discuss
your surrender,” said the Rider. “If you come to us without struggle, your men
can go free.”

“Go free? You have taken
their nation, beast,” Beccorban growled. “Where should they go?”

“I care not, Hammer.
Know only that your land is ours again as it was before. No other human will be
granted this boon. Go while you still can.”

Beccorban paused and
hung his head,s and Loster felt his heart quicken.
Surely he wasn’t considering it?

Finally Beccorban turned
to face them. He shrugged and spread his arms. “There you have it, lads. That’s
the price. Let any man speak who wishes to spend me thus.”

Loster bit down on his
tongue. He imagined himself standing there asking the same question.
How many would buy their safety with your
flesh?
he wondered.

“
Speak,
”
said Barde. “
This is a gift from the old man. Speak and
we can be away from here.
”

Loster bit down harder
until his eyes watered from the pain. He wouldn’t give in to Barde. Not this
time.

“
It matters not,
” sneered his phantom brother. “
Cock your ears. Someone else will do your dirty work for you.
”

Loster looked down the
line of crimson painted soldiers. Not a single man so much as blinked, lest it
be taken as an acceptance of the Rider’s offer.

Operin stepped out from
the line and turned to face the men. The young lommocel unsheathed his sword and
raised it to the starry sky. “Helhammer!” he cried.

One or two of the men
shouted it back and before long every one of them was calling out,
“Hel-ham-mer! Hel-ham-mer!”

Loster laughed aloud and
added his voice to the chant, raising his borrowed sword and revelling in the
silence in his head. “Hel-ham-mer! Hel-ham-mer!”

Even over the shouting,
Loster could hear Beccorban’s booming laugh. It was a wondrous noise —
daylight after a dark and stormy night.

The Rider grimaced and
leaned on the pommel of his saddle. He reached down into a sack tied to his
mount’s bridle and removed something that looked like a large rock. With a
casual flick of his arm, the Rider threw the strange object high over
Beccorban’s head to land in between the old warrior and the chanting troops. It
rolled and tumbled over bumps and tufts of grass until finally coming to a
stop.

Loster gasped and felt
his chest tighten. It was a human head and, though it was hard to make out
details, its long silver hair, matted with blood, betrayed it. He thought again
of the slipskin masquerading as the Empron.
Illis.
The chanting died away.

“I brought an old friend
for you, Helhammer, though I’m worried you may not recognise him. It was
supposed to be a gift but then, as I understand it, you already have one of
those.” The Rider raised his voice. “Look, mighty Verians, upon the face of
your empire.”

Beccorban did not bother
to turn around but simply stalked back to the walls. “Ready yourselves, men. We
have work to do yet.” His face was grim and he was pursued by the oddly human
laughter of the Rider, who wheeled his mount and faded back into the shadows.

Beccorban cursed
inwardly and strode back to the line, loosening Kreyiss in her thongs and
drawing her forth so that he might have something to squeeze. He had been
outplayed. The envoy had no intention of accepting any surrender. It had all
been a mockery; theatre so that he could crush the morale of these frightened
boys further.
What do the Echoes have to
fear from these farmhands and raw recruits? Is it just cruelty on their part?
He
hopped on to the low wall and turned to face the shadows of the distant
treeline. There was no reason for any more subterfuge. The Echoes would attack
from the front, a testing move that could very well overwhelm his meagre force.
He spat and took a deep breath, hoping that the cool air might quench the
bubbling rage that was beginning to mist his vision
. Let them come
. By all the gods he was ready for them. He had felt
this rage before. It was his killing rage and it had taken him to many dark
places, but now he was unburdened by guilt — his was a righteous anger,
directed at an unworldly force that sought his destruction.
Let them come.

The sour smell of vomit
washed over him and he grimaced.
You’re
fighting for all of them,
Beccorban
.
You’re all going to die here. Make them
die like men.
A faint tinkling sound announced the arrival of a light rain.
Beccorban looked up into the heavens and closed his eyes as the cool water
caressed his face. He pictured soft feminine hands and her face came to him.
Though the features were muddy, it was as if he could feel her presence and he
felt at peace.
Watch me work, my love
.
He grinned and let it come forth as laughter, knowing that the soldiers nearby
would think him mad.
Thank the gods for
rain! Without it, this would have been too easy!

Soon the ground before
the walls was a morass of mud and each of them was drenched to the bone.
Beccorban tried to ignore the human head lying on the ground some twenty yards
away. If the Rider had been speaking the truth it belonged to Illis, his one
time friend, the man he had raised to power.
Would it be weakness to go and pick it up? Yes,
he decided. Now was
not the time.
Besides, Illis was dead to
you decades ago.

He distracted himself by
scanning the shadows ahead, looking for the first glint of tall knights or
whatever was coming for them from the darkness. “Where are they?” he asked no
one, clenching his teeth. His hand ached, and he realised he was gripping
Kreyiss too tight, so he switched it to his left and flexed the old bones
there.
Patience
, he told himself.

A shadow within a shadow
shifted slightly and then disappeared. The man behind him tried to vomit again,
but his stomach was empty and instead he gagged with a weird honking noise.
More shadows moved, sliding over each other and morphing until Beccorban could
not be sure whether he was looking at one or a thousand Echoes.

He raised Kreyiss on
high, feeling the drops of water from her head fall on to his face. “Here they
come! Remember they bleed like you and I, they’re just more stubborn!” Some
half-hearted cheers rang out but all else was silent anticipation. “Archers!”
he raised his fist and the score of men on the wall to the left lifted their
bows. “Loose!” The bowstrings twanged and twenty arrows or bolts flew through
the air to be instantly swallowed by the night. “At will!” He gave the order
and stepped back down off of the wall, making sure his enemies would have
something to clamber over while he decided how to kill them. The archers kept
up their discordant staccato with something approaching rhythm and Beccorban
could hear the whispers of missiles slicing through the air, and the distant
ugly thuds where some struck home in flesh.

The approaching shapes
faltered and then seemed to pick up speed and Beccorban narrowed his eyes. Were
they having an effect? Operin stepped forward on the right to join him, smiling
nervously, and Beccorban acknowledged him with a nod. Usually he would keep all
officers at the back to relay orders and keep discipline but then this was not
a usual fight. Strategy was for pitched battles and, though their situation was
desperate, this would be little more than a skirmish. Bravery ruled supreme
here. He felt the urge to laugh. The Helhammer killed in a rain-soaked
skirmish. Maybe it was a good thing that the bards thought he was already dead.
They will be hard pressed to make a song
out of this one.

The moon had been hidden
briefly behind a wisp of cloud but now it shone down bright on to the killing
ground before the ruined walls, revealing the shambling figures that came
towards them. Beccorban swore loudly.

They were humans, each
naked and mutilated like the prisoners on the
Lussido
, their arms cut off at the shoulder to leave gaping wounds,
black blood spilling over white bone. Had he not seen it before he would have
voided his stomach. “Archers cease!” He waved the archers down and they looked
across at him in confusion.

He had been played
again. His already impotent force was now hamstrung by the knowledge that they
had just killed innocents and all he could do was keep his men where they were,
forcing them to watch their fellow humans writhe on the ground and die in front
of them. Those that had been struck by arrows were down but the others stumbled
on, preferring to face the death offered by their own rather than the horror at
their backs. He wondered how many had come willingly, seizing the chance to
gain the sweet release of death.

A series of hushed
conversations broke out behind him and he listened as the young officers called
for quiet, the tremors in their voices betraying their own doubts. What he
would give for a seasoned vetero!
He
needed time to think, but he did not have it, for more shapes — tall
shapes — were moving in the darkness and these ones came fast.

“Hold your ground!” he
bellowed. He could feel the rage boiling up in him again and Kreyiss’ haft felt
hot where he held her. She was ready. “Necks, thighs, and bellies, men. By the
gods let’s make them bleed!”