Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (9 page)

“Of course, milord.”
They both waited until the footsteps had retreated.

The Doppelganger held up
a hand. It was gloved in silk — something that struck Callistan as
peculiarly feminine — but the Doppelganger slowly pulled it off to reveal
the hand underneath. It was Callistan’s left hand as it had been: smooth skin,
strong fingers and a spider’s web of faint scars that contrasted against the
tanned flesh. Callistan’s stump throbbed in envy of its counterpart.

“You think to threaten
me?” Its voice was subtly different now, a low hiss, hollow like the echo from
an empty vase. It had discarded the deep tones that matched Callistan’s so
eerily. “You think I have not been flayed before? How then do I wear your
skin?” It laughed but, this time, there was no mirth to it. “Skin is not like a
cloak. One does not put it on and change it for a warmer one when the wind
turns. No, Fourfinger. It binds to me. Your flesh and mine are one. The only
way to remove it — as I shall when my task here is done — is to cut
it off.” It pulled a small yet wickedly sharp blade from a pocket concealed
deep within the folds of its tunic and, for a second, Callistan thought that he
was about to die.

Yet the Doppelganger did
not lash out. Instead it slowly and methodically sawed at the skin of its
wrist, careful not to let the blood stain its clothes. Once it was done, it
returned the blade to its hideaway and regarded Callistan once again. “I am
part of a slave race, you see. Much as you have been and shall be again. It is
the fate of my people that our lives must be a farce of mummery and mimicry. In
my time, I have worn a dozen skins at the behest of my masters and, after
yours, I shall perhaps wear a dozen more. Do you know what it feels like to
wear
somebody? Of course you don’t. It
itches, Fourfinger, and it smells. Man is plagued with repellent oils and
waters that would turn the stomach of most creatures. Yet I endure because I
serve something infinitely more terrible than the consideration of my own
comfort.” It pinched the tip of its ring finger between thumb and forefinger
and gave a vicious tug. The skin pulled away with a deep, sucking sound, as
easily as the silk glove had a few moments before.

Its true hand had nine
fingers, each very long and thin. They had been folded and tucked in pairs
inside the human hand it wore. Each finger had multiple joints, betrayed by the
slight bump of a knuckle here and there. Yet each joint seemed free to bend in
any direction. The skin, though streaked with blood, was a pale white, almost
translucent like gristle. The whole thing reminded Callistan of a great spider,
and he flinched as the Doppelganger reached out to grip the crown of his head
in a cool and surprisingly strong grip at odds with the seeming frailty of its
fingers.

“The arrogance of man is
that you think you are supreme in this world. This will be your downfall. You
were not first, nor shall you be last. Did you think my masters would forget?
That they would retreat into the shadows and fairy stories that you use to
scare your whelps?”

“What are you?” asked
Callistan, failing to keep the terror from his voice.

The Doppelganger stood
to its full height and began to curl up its fingers, ready to slip its fleshy
disguise back on. “Think of me as the waking dream that leaves you in a cold
sweat.” It tugged on the loose skin and flexed its constricted fingers in
perfect imitation of a human opening and closing its fist.

Callistan’s mind raced,
but he needed answers. “But why… why am I alive?”

The Doppelganger smiled
that cruel smile. “Because you, dear Fourfinger, are the song that lulls the
world of men to sleep. I shall proclaim you as the enemy in our midst, sent by
those who would seek to bring us down. With your unwilling help I shall be able
to remove anybody of worth and replace them with my own kind, or leave them
dead altogether — it’s all the same in the end. Oh, don’t worry, you’re
not alone. There are others like me dealing with others like you, and once they
are finished, then all will be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“The nightmare, of
course. The return of my masters.”

“I don’t understand,”
said Callistan lamely, his head swimming.

“You won’t have to.
You’ll be a head on a spike soon, if I know enough about the Empron’s ailing
wits. Guard!”

There was a flurry of
movement from outside and the thing that wore Callistan’s face made to step
outside. The Vetero’s head appeared between the leather curtains. “Is all well,
milord? Did you get what you wanted?”

The false Callistan
nodded. “I think I did, Vetero. Our prisoner was very informative.” It looked
back into the gloom where he lay. “For example, did you know that this low
creature has a family?”

“No, my Lord.”

It grinned and, even
silhouetted against the daylight outside, Callistan could see the second set of
teeth that spread throughout its jaw. Its mouth opened with a wet sound and
uttered something that made Callistan’s stomach drop.

“Me neither.”

He buried the bodies
deep. It was hard work, hacking at the frozen ground with a blunt and pitted
axe. It took several hours and the sky was well dark before he finished, but
the Forester felt strangely responsible for the corpses of the men he had
slain. He paused and leaned on the stave of the axe, aware that his breathing
was deepening. The air was thin up here yet the cold made it better, richer
somehow. The Forester balled his hands into fists and then splayed them out,
keeping them warm. Gloves would have kept them warm but at the cost of a firm
grip, and an axe wound was not something he could afford. He felt up to reach
his brow and grunted with satisfaction. Dry as an old bone. Perhaps he was not
as unconditioned as he had thought. That was good. To sweat out here was to
die, frozen in a web of your own salt water like a candle covered in rivulets
of dried wax.

The Forester looked at
the fresh mounds of dark soil. They stood out amongst the brilliant snow like
rotten teeth. Soon each would be buried again as Winter devoured the landscape.
The beasts of the forest would have it hard to get at them, yet he knew it
would not stop them from trying.

He thought of another
grave not far from here. Its occupant had turned to dust long ago yet he still
kept it neat, even now. No animals had bothered her tomb, nor would they. He
had seen to that. “You are a sentimental old fool,” he said aloud, placing the
axe on a broad shoulder and turning to leave.

It was time to move on.
He did not know where he would go but the forest was no longer safe. He could
not stay here. As he walked, he thought on the men he had left in cold,
nameless graves beneath the snow. Why so many? Surely they no longer feared his
name as they once had? He was approaching his sixtieth year, well past his prime,
and though he had won, his muscles and joints still creaked at the day’s
efforts. In a way, it was flattering that they had come to find him in force.
They clearly still considered him formidable. Yet it was also insulting. None
had been true warriors, none a challenge. Many had been too old or young, and
one grossly overweight. The Forester grimaced as he thought of the youngest.
Killing him had been unnecessary. He hadn’t even had a beard. As he had laid
the boy’s body in its icy tomb, he had accidentally brushed a handful of loose
snow on to the boy’s chin. Despite the coolness of the dead flesh, it had
melted quickly, yet for a brief moment, it made him look like a child playing
dress-up, frosting his face with snow to look like an old man.

He should have let the
boy live.

No,
he thought.
That is weakness talking.
He had seen
others fooled by innocence before, slowed by the saintly smile of a child or
the pretty face of a woman who cradled a knife behind her back. He remembered
the conquest of Threshia years before. How many men had been found with their
britches down and throats slit?

The Forester sighed. The
boy had been a victim of fate. At least it had been quick.

He had been considering
vengeance. A stirring of the old anger had flushed through veins stained with
the passage of adrenaline. Yet he had put that thought aside. He didn’t want to
revisit those days. The bloodlust had awakened briefly in his gut and it had
taken an effort of will to put it down again. Vengeance was for the young, for
those with something — someone — to fight for. He had none of that.
He was alone with his pride, and that could suffer wounds better than it used
to. He would not kill for pride. Not again.

But that did not mean he
could not be prepared.

It was fully dark now,
though the moonlight reflected from the snow and provided an eerie glow. It did
not matter, for he could have found his way blindfolded so many times had he
visited this spot. The Forester stepped into the clearing and paused
before the grave. There was no stone to mark her resting place, simply a large
block of greenish glass half-buried in the ground. It was untouched by the snow
and surrounded by a thin halo of grass, for it had been purchased at great
expense and possessed properties beyond those of normal craft. He stepped
forward and knelt, careful not to kneel on the imagined outline of her body.

The snow all around was
neat and untroubled. It bore no memory of his most recent visit a few days
before, and once he was gone it would carry no sign of this one. That was why
he had picked this place, away from deer paths or the lairs of scavengers.
Perfect. Pristine.

Like her.

The Forester sighed and
laid his head on the glass. It was warm, as he had been promised it would be
forevermore, for sorcery was dearly bought. It felt comforting, like a maternal
hand placed on his brow. It was a dark night but in daylight you could see down
through the glass to her elaborate stone tomb. It had been hand-crafted in
Vendal and engraved with her likeness. The engraving was so detailed that more
than a few of his tears had salted the earth nearby and beaded upon the glass
block before today.

But today was no time
for tears. It was time for resolve. And farewells — at least for now. She
would wait for him. She was eternal.

He kissed the glass and
got to his feet, aware that she was staring up at him from the gloom. He took
three large steps to the left, hefted the axe and swung at the ground, grunting
as the blade bounced off earth frozen as hard as iron. After a while, the snow
and soil began to break up and he worked quickly, digging down almost to the
level of the tomb. It pained him to do this so close to her, but this
grave did not only hold the woman he loved. It also held memories of a
different time. A darker time. Now he would have to revisit those memories, if
only to last the winter.

He crouched and fumbled
in the loose dirt, lumpy and frozen. His bare fingers screamed at the knives of
cold and the scratching of hard-packed earth but he ignored it. He had to find
what he was looking for. At first he told himself that he needed what he
sought. After her passing he had buried it here with her to guard over her, but
in truth he had buried it here because then he wouldn’t have to look at it and
scream at himself to throw it away.

Even
that was only partly true,
he thought as he scrabbled in the darkness. He
had buried it next to her because, try as he might to forget what he had hidden
here, part of him worshipped it as much as he did her. His visits to her grave
were equally visits to this symbol of his former self. He would never be rid of
it and, unlike her, he could never be parted from it.

He
would
not be parted from it.

A cloud passed from in
front of the moon and something in the wall of soil ahead of him caught his
eye: a gleam of oiled wood, poking out from the ground. He couldn’t help but
grin. He scratched the soil away from around the wood to reveal the edge of a
strongbox. He wiped his hands on the furs he wore and gripped what little of
the box he could get a purchase on. A quick, savage tug and the full length of
the box came free, falling atop him. He brushed dirt from the dark wood and
turned it around to get at the silver catches. It was a wonder the strongbox
had not rotted. The man who had sold it to him had said that it was tough. How
right he was.

The Forester leant back
on his haunches and hauled the box on to his thighs. It was surprisingly heavy
— he had forgotten just how heavy. He ran a hand across the top of the
box, clearing it of the last few flecks of dirt and snow. Strangely the wood
was warm and smooth, like stone baked in the sun. He slid his hands down
to the catches and marvelled again at their workmanship: two hands wrought in a
dark, tarnished silver, clasping wrist to wrist in the grip of a warrior. He
flicked them open and eased back the lid.

And stepped into dark
memory.

Within lay the great
warhammer, Kreyiss. Its haft was of a red-black wood that caught the wan light
of the moon in a glossy sheen. It stretched the length of a man’s arm and then
half again, terminating in a sharp steel bodkin at one end and at the other the
hammer itself. The hammer was not overly large but it was solid and heavy
enough that the majority of the hammer’s weight was concentrated at the killing
end. It made Kreyiss a weapon of rare devastation. The Forester plucked it
reverently from the case, his skin creaking as he tightened hands dry with
anticipation around the haft. A wave of emotion swept over him and caused
him to shudder. It was at once a feeling of overwhelming joy and a sense of
self-loathing that threatened to engulf him. This simple fusion of wood and
steel had been the centre of his world for most of his adult life. With it he
had broken nations, toppled kings, and made an Empron. And killed. Gods, how he
had killed.

He hung his head and
touched the haft of the warhammer to his brow. Shame struck him but Kreyiss’
touch was a comfort nonetheless. He knew not why.

“I’m disappointed,” said
a voice in the darkness.

The Forester stood and
turned in one smooth motion, swinging Kreyiss over his head ready to strike out
two-handed. Above him, a few metres away, a very tall figure sat in the snow,
wreathed in a shroud of black. The figure held up a hand and in so doing his
robe fell away to reveal a thin, long-fingered hand, pale enough to carry a
hint of blue — although that could have just been the moonlight catching
his skin.

“Do not fear. I have
long since discarded the notion of attacking you.” He breathed in raggedly. “I
don’t believe I have the strength.”

A sibilant series of
hisses that could have been laughter made the Forester frown. He climbed back
up to level ground, yet was careful not to take his eyes from the shadowy man
in front of him.

The Stranger did not
react, nor even move his head. “Now that I see you with that,” he nodded at
Kreyiss, “I understand why the Mallephiskarii wanted you dead. It’s truly like
watching a warrior of old come to life before your eyes.”

The Forester scanned the
trees behind the Stranger. He would not be caught out any more than he had
already been, yet if this was a trap it was an odd one. If this tall man wanted
to kill him, why not just crouch in the shadows that necked the clearing and
end him with a bow? Any half decent bowman could have made a killing shot from
that range. He raged at himself for being so careless. He had not sensed even a
whisper of movement on his journey here, yet clearly he had been followed. Now
his pursuer sat here before him, seemingly at his mercy. The Forester was alive
through sheer damned luck, and the man who trusted to luck fed the worms before
his time.

“Would you believe me if
I told you that I am alone?” said the man sitting in the snow. “No? I thought
not. Well I am, so you can quit your posturing. It may be impressive but it is
also tiresome.” He sighed and broke into a wheezing cough, then spat. A fine
mist of red, black in the night, spattered on to the snow.

“Who are you?” growled
the Forester, his eyes never leaving their target.

“You wouldn’t know if I
told you, but that is not to say I am not someone important,” the Stranger
raised his head to look at him and he caught a flash of intelligence. The eyes
of a predator. “Your kind has ever overestimated itself. You have blurred the
line between history and myth.”

“You did not answer my
question,” the Forester took a menacing step forward, but if the tall man saw
it, he did not react.

“I did not answer
because it was a foolish question,” the Stranger sounded irritated. “None of
you now remember those that curdled the blood of your forefathers. I must say
we did not expect to be forgotten so…
carelessly
.”
He coughed again and spat more blood into the snow.

The Forester was
circling the cloaked figure, searching for any obvious weaknesses. He lowered
Kreyiss, holding it before him with one hand. “You were with the men that
burned my home,” he pointed the warhammer accusingly.

“The men you buried in
shallow graves? Yes, I was with them for a time. I did not foresee such
brutality from one so old, though of course your reputation precedes you.”

The Forester ignored the
barb. “Who sent you? Was it Illis?”

“In a sense.”

“Speak plain, man,”
snapped the Forester.

“The men I was with
thought that their Empron had sent them. In reality frail, mad Illis knew
little of it. Thankfully he knows little of less these days.” Another hiss of
laughter.

The Forester was behind
the man now. “What do you want with me?”

The Stranger sighed, and
when he spoke his voice was distant. “A selfish, individualistic race. That is
what I was told about men.” He hissed again. “You’re not alone, just one more
frayed end on a thread that has been unravelling for centuries.” He laughed.
“You must forgive me, but then, of course, you cannot fathom how queer it is
for me to be having this conversation with you.”

The Forester was wary,
yet he felt compelled to draw what information he could from this bizarre man,
if only to delay whatever the Stranger had planned. “Queer,” he grunted. “How
so?”

"Does the spider
talk to the fly? Would the slaughterman stop to speak with the herd?”