Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (8 page)

“Don’t tell me you
believe that drivel. You’re called many things, Malix, but
idiot
is not one of them.”

Loster looked at the
speaker. He was a man of average height, dressed in a charcoal grey robe that
stretched to his knees, with a hood pulled down low over his face like a thrall
of the Temple Deep. But this was no priest. His father had spoken of the war.
From his lessons with Aifayne, Loster knew that this meant the man was a member
of the Sons of Iss, a shadowy group of Respini plotters and assassins that had
sworn vengeance against Veria.

“Lies? Are they lies?
Were you not responsible for the atrocities at Iero?” Malix asked sweetly.

“You know that had
nothing to do with us. We had an understanding with Illis.”

Loster could only assume
his father was referring to the event that had started the recent conflict: two
imperial grain collectors seized and murdered by a mob at Iero. Aifayne had
told Loster that it was the influence of the Sons of Iss, stirring trouble
against the rightful rule of the Verians. In response, Illis had declared the
Sons outlaw, to be killed on sight. That had been two years ago. Now the news
from the Greenlands was that the last rebels had been crushed. There would be
peace again.

Malix barked a laugh.
“An understanding! Yes, yes. He gave you the Helhammer and you promised to stop
your little attacks.”

“The Scourge deserved to
die a thousand times and more,” the robed man’s voice brimmed with hate, “but
that was twenty years ago. We had, other arrangements with Illis.”

“You are aware that some
say the Helhammer is still alive?” Malix could not help but grin as he mocked.
It made Loster’s skin crawl.

“It changes nothing. We
did not break our covenant. Illis did. The Sons of Iss were a convenient badge
to pin on any unrest. Taxes and forced conscription started this war, not us.”
The man in grey waved a hand. “But all this is immaterial. Why did you not
accept our last tribute?”

“Tribute? Is that what
we’re calling it now?”

“Malix,” the grey man
spoke with a warning tone, “why did you not accept it?”

Malix tapped his goatee
with one long finger and then swung himself around so that he was sitting
forward. “Because I have had a change of heart. Providing you with sanctuary in
these turbulent times has proven to be more expensive than I originally
thought.” He grinned evilly. “I’ll consider your
tribute
half of the required monies.”

“Half?” the robed man
spluttered. “You have lost your mind. Your price is already exorbitant, and
your sanctuary… well, we have lost seven members these past two weeks. There
are tunnels a mile long, winding and twisting…” he trailed off as Malix began
to chuckle, low in his throat.

“I’m not surprised you’re
losing members. Rats often jump from a sinking ship.”

“We are not losing
members, they are disappearing. There is a difference. If we find out it is of
your doing, there will be a price for it. One that you cannot pay. Remember
that only our arrangement keeps the knives from your door,” the robed man
snapped. “Elk is not so far from the ashes of Iss. Do you think we suffer a
Verian to live here lightly?” He spat on to the floor in front of him, and
Malix’s guardsmen shifted restlessly. Loster’s heartbeat began to quicken.

Malix had fallen
strangely silent and his eyes were fixed on the spittle darkening the stone
floor. Loster felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. Gaston
Malix’s temper was a terrible thing.

“Do you know,” the Lord
of Elk said slowly, “I’ve just figured out why you wear such sombre clothes.”
He stood suddenly in an elastic motion and marched down the steps in a swirl of
colourful fabric. The Lord of Elk was a vain man, and was often dripping with
gold and jewellery and fine silks. Today he had opted for a dark blue cloak
with a tunic and trews of wine red. The robed man shifted slightly as Malix
approached but otherwise stayed where he was. “Such a moody grey colour.” He
reached out to pluck at the man’s sleeve.

“They are grey to
reflect the ashes of Iss,” said the robed man. “The City of Innocents that your
Empron and his lapdog burned to the ground. This is no secret.”

Malix nodded as he
stalked around the man in a circle. With the speed of a striking snake he
whipped out a hand and yanked the hood from the man’s head. Loster bit his lip
to stifle a gasp, for the robed man was no man at all, but rather a thin,
anaemic young woman, with hair as black as the night.

The woman yelped in
surprise and turned to Malix, only to find herself facing the bared blades of
three of his household guard.

Malix laughed coldly.
“Who would have known? A
daughter
of
Iss.” He turned to his men. “And so pretty.” They grinned maliciously at their
master’s jest. Loster could not make out the details from his hiding place for
the woman had her back to him, but her anger was evident in the stiffness of
her body and the delight on his father’s face.

“You don’t know what
you’re doing, Malix. The Sons of Iss are not to be mocked.”

“No, indeed. That must be
why you hide in the mountain hall, quivering whenever Verian soldiers wander
by. You’re finished here. A relic of a war decades old. Your cause is dead,” he
spat. “The Helhammer is dead.
Iss
is
dead.” He pushed past her and began to walk back to his seat of office, then he
turned smartly on his heel and snapped his fingers. “Hold her.”

The woman tried to move
but two of the guardsmen were on her too fast, gripping her around the waist
and upper arms. They dragged her around to face Malix again. He stepped forward
and backhanded her across the face with sickening force.

“I am the power in this
land,” snarled Malix. “Not some sad gathering of murderers, weeping over a dead
city.”

“You’ll pay,
you’ll—” the woman was cut off as Malix struck her again. She spat blood
on to the floor to land next to her spittle. Loster suddenly wanted to leave.
He knew his father’s tastes and they often went further than mere bloodshed.

Casually Malix reached
out and gripped the neck of the woman’s robe. With a violent jerk, he ripped
downwards, tearing the garments underneath and baring her small, pale breasts
that quivered and heaved as she struggled. The Lord of Elk reached out and
cupped one tenderly, then he gripped and twisted savagely. She cried out in
agony and Loster felt his stomach heave.

“You are lucky I don’t
give you to my men. You would make good sport once we’d stripped that unsightly
costume from you.” He released her and snapped a curt order to his men, who
reluctantly let her go. She fell to her knees and covered her naked chest with
the folds of her torn robe. “Go, crawl back to your hole. Tell your friends
that you have two weeks. If I don’t have my money by then — all of it
— news of your hiding place will find its way to Illis. And let me tell you
that the Dremon are far worse neighbours than I.” With that he strode from the
hall, followed by his guardsmen.

The woman remained on
her knees for a moment after he was gone and then gingerly climbed to her feet.
After taking a moment to compose herself, she left, followed by sniggers from
other guardsmen that remained unseen.

Loster sat back. He felt
ill and his headache had returned with a fury. It was no surprise that Malix
was turning a profit from the enemy but how could he let them live there
without warning them of the horror that lurked in the mountain? Loster knew he
had to go after her, find out exactly what was going on. He waited for the
voice that had ruled his actions in his childhood, the voice that egged him on
and made him face his fears, but there was only silence. Ever since his brother
had died, the voice had stayed quiet. No more dark encouragement. No more false
bravado. In its place there was nothing, just emptiness and a raw ache that
throbbed deep in his skull.

Loster flinched as the
huge double doors of the Great Hall slammed closed. The noise breathed new life
into the pain in his head and his hands flew to his temples to squeeze it out.
It was no use. The agony whipped around inside his skull, flailing tendrils of
scorching flame and spikes of ice that stabbed and probed at all the softest
membranes he possessed. He screwed his eyes shut, but every time he did he
found himself back in the darkness of the Widowpeak and terror clasped his
heart in barbed fingers.

“Barde,” he moaned
aloud, careless of being heard. “Where are you, brother?”

The motion of the cart
was making Callistan’s head swim. It didn’t help any that he could only open
one eye; the other was swollen shut. Every time his good eyelid drooped with
fatigue, his world became a swirl of colour. It was making him nauseous.

The cart rocked
violently as one of the wheels slid into a deep rut, and Callistan was thrown
against the flimsy wooden screen that shielded him from the elements. The iron
shackles he wore bit into the thin skin of his wrists and he gritted his teeth
against the pain. A guffaw of laughter came from the portly driver, followed by
a hacking cough as he spat a gobbet of phlegm into the undergrowth. Callistan
heard a string of curses directed at the driver, who simply laughed all the
more.

Callistan shuffled to
the centre of the stained wagon bed, over old straw and his own filth. He had
long since stopped caring about what he smelt like. He dragged himself
backwards so that the small of his back rested against the shallow skirt of the
wagon. It wasn’t exactly comfort but it felt near enough like it.

The convoy rumbled
onwards. They had been travelling at a punishing speed for days now. He could
not judge exactly how much time had passed, but at the end of the wagon there
hung a leather curtain, wrinkled and worn like the dewlaps of an old milk cow,
and he could get a loose understanding of night and day by how much light
spilled through its folds. They fed him seemingly at random — if at all
— and each meal — if it could be called that — was
accompanied by kicks and curses. He had learned to stay silent, though he
earned new bruises every day nonetheless.

The heat inside the
wagon was unbearable. The weather should have been turning cold by now yet the
snows were withheld, as if by some jealous god. The days were the worst, and
Callistan spent them itching and sweltering in his soiled clothing. The heat
didn’t abate much at night but it was enough for him to catch some fitful sleep
on the hard wooden floor of his prison.

So he waited, and
sweated, and brooded in his flimsy wooden cage until somebody would come and
speak to him.

Either that or put him
out of his misery.

He was still utterly
baffled by his situation. The nobleman who had ordered his arrest had seemingly
shared his name, his voice, and presumably his face as well. Surely there must
have been some misunderstanding? His mind had been groggy — indeed it
still was. Perhaps the old man, Hapal, was a lunatic? No, he had seemed
entirely natural. Besides, the other men would not have humoured him unless
they too were mad. Callistan rolled his tongue around his mouth, probing at a
loose tooth in the back. One of his guards had caught him square in the jaw
with a pointed boot and his head was still foggy from the impact. The man had
been one of Hapal’s aides. None of it made any sense.

Callistan closed his
eyes and rested his head on the wooden panelling behind him. If he truly was a
spy, then why did everything seem familiar to him? To steal a man’s flesh was a
feat in itself. To steal his mind was another thing entirely. His memories were
few and far between, yet they had all seemed to click together neatly when he
had heard that name, his name.
Callistan.
Lord of Blackwatch
. It just sounded right. Gods, he wished he could
remember! Then he could say something, do something to prove that he was
him
, and that the other… what was the
other Callistan? What man could wear another’s face so convincingly?

He swore and bounced his
head off of the wood, causing a swarm of angry wasps to buzz to life inside his
skull. He swore again, louder.

“Quiet in there!” yelled
the driver, his mouth wrapped awkwardly around some kind of food. Callistan’s
stomach growled at the thought of food. He had to get out of here, if only to
catch a decent meal.

 Abruptly the wagon
began to slow down. The driver sawed viciously on the reins, heaving the wagon
to a stop and swerving it to one side, causing Callistan to be flung on to his
face. The prisoner groaned as the wind was knocked out of him but fought his
way back to a sitting position, trying to ignore the driver’s raucous laughter.
There was the jingle of traces and the heavy tread of booted feet outside the
wagon. Sarifs and veteros challenged each other to be heard over the din,
crying orders and curses alike in a harmony of gruff and melodic voices.

“Make way! Make way!” a
hoarse voice called as the
clip-clop
of hooves drowned out the other noises — a cold staccato that filled
Callistan with dread. Fear welled in his stomach and ran clammy hands up his
neck to wrap around his throat. He coughed and flushed purple as a thin whimper
that he was too weak to contain slipped into the morning air.

A shadow of a man
blocked the meagre light at the leather opening, then moved aside. Callistan
brought his wounded hand up to shield his eyes from the unfamiliar glare as the
figure turned to address someone out of sight.

“I wish to talk in
private with the impostor, Vetero,” said a voice that mocked his own.

“Yes, milord.”

“You may leave us, but
do not stray too far. The arts of our enemy are many.”

“Of course, milord.
We’ll be close by."

Callistan watched as his
doppelganger climbed up on to the wagon and folded himself through the slit in
the leather. Blinded by the brief exposure to daylight, his eyes could not
focus on the figure before him. All was shapes and shadows.

The Doppelganger smelt
like soap and cloves and rosewater and something altogether unpleasant that
Callistan could not quite place. There was a sibilant sound of fabric on fabric
and then a rasp as a small flame flickered to life. The Doppelganger cradled
the fire in one hand, twirling a small but thick taper in the other. As it
caught, it spilled its wan light around the darkened space, chasing shadows
lazily into the corners.

Callistan resisted the
urge to gasp as the light revealed that perfect parody of his face, now but a
few inches away. There was no mistaking it. This man was an exact copy of him.
The weak firelight rendered the Doppelganger’s face in hellish tones and lit
the eyes like jewels so that Callistan could make out his own features in the
distorted reflection: bruised and swollen, but otherwise identical. It was like
staring into some ghoulish mirror.

“You stink,” said the
Doppelganger. Callistan did not reply but instead took a moment to study the
face before him: the curl of the lip, the penetrating, unblinking gaze.

When Callistan replied,
it was in a quiet voice, firm and measured. “As do you,” he paused. “My Lord.”

The face before him
creased with genuine amusement. “How admirable. Defiance.” The Doppelganger
moved into a more comfortable position, squatting before Callistan with the
slow-burning wand of fire held aloft like some ceremonial torch. It cocked its
head as if considering how to continue. To Callistan, it felt as if some great
predatory bird was sizing him up. “Do you know what the men are calling you?”
The Doppelganger paused and Callistan realised that it was waiting for a reply.

“Enlighten me.”

The Doppelganger
grinned. “The Deceiver,” it said grandly. “Face-Stealer. Cuckoo.” It waved a
hand. “There are some more colourful and markedly less poetic ones, but I think
you get the point.”

“The point is that one
of us is a man, and one of us is something else entirely.”

“Very astute. I couldn’t
have put it better myself,” said the Doppelganger with what could have been a
playful wink, “that is, if I had not just heard myself say it.” Callistan said
nothing, for he was unsure how to reply. “I take it that you are unaware of the
nuances of your situation?”

“I’m afraid I don’t
follow.”

“And that is exactly the
point I am making.” The Doppelganger wagged a finger triumphantly. “You do not
follow. You do not comprehend."

“I do not
remember
,” Callistan growled.

The Doppelganger leaned
closer, eyes flicking across Callistan’s face. “No, you do not. And therein
lies my advantage.”

Callistan stayed silent,
a knot of anger and frustration tightening in his gut. To him, it seemed as if
his reflection had come to life with a will of its own, a mirror image taunting
him as readily as if from behind the safety of polished silver.

“What a joy it is to see
the limits of the human imagination,” the creature said. “Men you’ve lived
with, men you’ve commanded as unable to recognise you as you would be to find a
chosen pebble on the beach.”

Annoyed, Callistan felt
his cheeks grow warm. Was this impostor so sure of itself that it could gloat
so freely?

The thing before him
continued. “I must admit, for a brief moment I thought my imitation was an
imperfect one.” It snatched up Callistan’s damaged hand with snake-like speed
and squeezed hard, rolling its grip so that the bones grated against one
another. Blood began to flow. “I thought I would have to chew off a finger.” It
raised his captive hand to its mouth, wide open as if ready to clamp down.
Callistan whimpered reflexively and blinked tears from his eyes. Yet, even with
his misted vision, he could see that another, larger set of teeth hid behind
the Doppelganger’s stolen ones. They were wide and sharp like spades.

The Doppelganger snapped
its mouth shut with an audible click, champing down on thin air. It laughed
shrilly and rocked backwards, releasing Callistan’s hand.

“I do so detest
self-mutilation.” It spread its hands — hands that, though gloved and
clothed in Callistan’s flesh, hid gods knew what. “Alas, it is sometimes a
necessity. Your wound is recent enough for it to be ignored: a mishap, perhaps,
on your way to stoke revolution. I could spin things a thousand ways. Besides,
those who know you — sorry,
knew
— knew you as a whole man.” It touched its own chest. “I am the whole
now. I have assumed your place. You are the false friend. Perhaps you should
call yourself Callistan Fourfinger to help you remember?”

Callistan breathed
shallowly, and for a long time, the Doppelganger seemed content to let him be
still. Finally he spoke. “Why tell me this? Does it entertain you?”

“Perhaps.” It seemed to
consider that for a moment. “Maybe I am bored. Maybe I want to study you.”

“Study me?”

“Of course. How else am
I to take your life away from you?”

Callistan flexed his
wrists against the manacles but it was no use. They were as strong as they had
been before and he was just as weak. He cursed himself inwardly for a fool.

“Aren’t you going to ask
me why?” asked the Doppelganger.

“Would it make a
difference?”

“No, but then you are
not the bluff soldier you pretend to be. You do not attack your foe without
first knowing him, knowing what he wants.”

“How can you be so
sure?”

 It smiled icily.
“I know everything there is to know about you. You have been watched for far
longer than you would ever think possible. A lifetime is as the passing breeze
to the forgotten ones, those I call ‘master.’ This,” it hesitated, “
usurpation
is part of something
infinitely greater. I am not alone, you see. Those of my kind are legion, and
we all have our roles to play.” It reached out and gripped him by the chin,
almost tenderly. “Yes, you
see
. I
play the role assigned to me very well. Very well, indeed. I have already taken
your face, your command, your reputation.” The Doppelganger savoured every
syllable. “Soon I will take your position and your wealth, your lands.” It
paused again, pointedly, and its eyes lanced into Callistan’s. “Your family…”

Callistan raged against
his bonds, chafing the skin. He knew it was a futile gesture but it made him
feel better.

“Such a strong
reaction,” the Doppelganger frowned, but to Callistan’s secret pride, shuffled
back farther out of reach. “Tell me, what are their names?”

Callistan gritted his
teeth. “What?”

“Come now, your family’s
names. The identities of these people that provoke such emotion within you.”

Callistan strained his
mind.
A small hand in his; a woman with
red-gold hair laughing; a large, comfortable house with an orchard and…
he
bowed his head.

“No, I thought not. I
bet you cannot even remember how many—”

“I have a son and a
daughter, beast,” Callistan’s voice was magma. “Their names may escape me for
the moment, but they are mine, and if you lay your cursed flesh upon them, I
shall strip it from you and smother you with it!” Hot rage tore the words from
his throat and he collapsed in a heap, coughing and spluttering until he tasted
iron. When he looked up, the Doppelganger was smiling faintly. It could not
have picked a more unnerving expression.

The tension was cut by
the hoarse voice from outside the wagon. “Milord? Are you okay?”

The Doppelganger replied
without breaking Callistan’s gaze. “Quite alright, Vetero.”

“We heard shouting.
Raised voices, milord.”

“Yes, thank you, Vetero,
I know what shouting is.” The Doppelganger sniffed. “Apologies, Vetero. The
devil has me riled. He taunted me. All is well. I will be out shortly.”