Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (14 page)

“Is it the whole
council? Are they all being killed?”

Hapal spread his hands.
“Who knows, my Lord. Not all, I’m sure. But in the last few days there have
been a dozen killed, and not a few of them were merely related to the accused.”

Callistan thought of the
bloated female corpse swinging in the wind. “And what of me? I’m not a council
member.” Hapal looked at him. “Am I?”

“No, my Lord, but you,
or rather the slipskin who has taken on your persona, is proving integral in
the purge.” Hapal waved a hand. “This trouble in the square is a setback but no
more. He will recover and the killings will continue. I believe he wanted to
show you off to the Empron — some sort of twisted proof that there are
deceptive elements in the highest echelons of power. A double bluff. The
slipskin, or whoever he is working for, wants to remove the shell of loyal men
protecting the Empron.”

“To what end?”

“I don’t know.”

The two men fell into a
comfortable and reflective silence.

Callistan leaned forward
and gently took the hem of Hapal’s robe in between thumb and forefinger. “Pray
tell me, what was your plan? It’s not often that one steals the skin of a
temple thrall.”

Hapal inclined his head.
“Very good, my Lord. I see your memory gathers swiftly.” He plucked at the
robe. “This was impersonation. Runt’s idea.”

Runt flushed again.
“They’re not true thrall’s robes, my Lord, just dyed sailcloth.” He pulled his
robes up to show pale, birdlike legs, patched with grey. “See, the dye runs.”

Callistan couldn’t help
but laugh at the boy's enthusiasm.

“What happens now?” he
said. “That thing out there won’t forget about me, and soon he will hear about
the temple thralls who took his prisoner.”

Hapal nodded. “We know
that, my Lord. The unrest earlier was a stroke of luck. We did not expect to
have you with us so soon.”

One of the men near the
door came over and crouched to speak in Hapal’s ear.

“What is it?” asked
Callistan,

“Night approaches, my
Lord.” Hapal gestured at the tear in the canopy overhead. The light was indeed
less bright than it had been and the shadows were lengthening, creeping up the
grey brickwork like searching fingers. “It means that we must act soon. If you
are still in the city come dawn you will never leave. Never.”

Callistan twisted his
mouth. “They’ll have watchers everywhere.”

“Perhaps, my Lord,
perhaps, but I think they’ll be concentrating on putting down the rioters this
night. One chance.” He held up a finger. “Yes, one chance.”

Then all was hushed
activity. Hapal took Callistan to one side where he gave him a large bundle: a
dark cloak tied together with a leather belt.

“Clothes, my Lord, for
your journey.” Callistan unhooked the belt and untied the bundle. Inside was
everything he would need for the road: a thick, woollen undershirt; a tunic of
dark homespun; a pair of black leather gloves; long, form-fitting riding trews patched
in leather on the inner thighs and the seat; dark knee-length boots of supple
calfskin that would last through hard weather and many miles.

In the middle of the
bundle was a slim knife with a simple wooden handle and a long sword in a plain
black scabbard. Callistan drew the first few inches of the cloudy black blade
and marvelled at the play of light on the subtle ripples in the steel. Its
blade had a thick spine with a wicked cutting edge on one side. It tapered in
the middle, swelling again at the tip into a leaf-shaped bulb of razor-sharp
metal, designed so that the weight of the tip would carry the edge through
flesh and bone. The sword carried the merest hint of a curve that lent it a
beauty second only to its qualities of intimidation. It filled Callistan with a
strange lust.

“A falcata, my Lord. A
weapon of the Dalukar. Deadly in the hands of a skilled warrior and unmatched
from horseback. This is yours. The slipskin seemed to have no need for it. He
will not miss it.”

“Thank you,” said Callistan,
“does it have a name?”

“No, my Lord,” Hapal
shook his head. “Forgive me, my Lord, but you always said that naming a sword
was crass.”

“Crass? I said that?”

“It is a tool, my Lord.
No name.”

Callistan nodded. He
sheathed the sword with a
snick
and
strapped the long blade to his back where it could be drawn swiftly. He
fastened the knife to his thigh as he would a short sword, and swung the cloak
that had held the bundle together over his shoulders, careful to tuck it under
the falcata so that it would not impede him.

A tap on the shoulder
made him turn. Runt stood there with a small canvas satchel clutched in his
spidery hands. “Some food, my Lord. It’s not much, but it’s all we could find
at such short notice.” He loosened the ties holding the satchel closed and
angled it so that Callistan could see inside. “Some bread, some salt pork,
cheese.” Runt handed him a bloated skin and pulled a face. “Just water, my
Lord. We didn’t have any wine.”

Callistan smiled and
made to speak, but Hapal shooed the boy away. “Yes, yes, Runt. Off you go.” He
took Callistan gently by the arm and led him away from the others. “Now, my
Lord, it is my suggestion that you head southwest, away from Temple and
whatever is going on here. If you were to head for the border near Respin, you
could—”

Callistan stopped him
with a raised hand. “No, my friend. I have to find my family.”

Hapal frowned. “They
will have thought of that. Most definitely. If they send men towards
Blackwatch…”

“I know. That is why I
must go. I fear I have already told the slipskin too much."

Hapal chewed his lower
lip. “You will need a horse but there is little chance of getting near the
stables. The Dalukar have seized every mount for miles.”

“I could walk in and
take one. As you say, I am the Grand Domestic.”

“And risk being caught
again? No, my Lord. You will have to flee on foot. Perhaps you will find a
horse along the way. It is several days east to Blackwatch and then farther
south from there to the country house. Perhaps a day farther.”

“The country house?”

“Ah, yes. Blackwatch is
on the high plains of the Watch. It’s truly a beauty — as you will no
doubt recall when you see it — but it also suffers the full wrath of all
the terrible storms from the east. Your family have a low, stone house that
they retreat to for much of the year, especially the winter. I would look there
first.”

“Forgive me, but I may
need some assistance with the direction.”

“Of course.” Hapal bowed
his head. “I forget sometimes that you don’t remember me.”

Callistan took the
elderly man’s cool hands in his and patted them softly. “And for that I am full
of regret, Hapal. You are a true friend.” Hapal smiled and nodded, embarrassed.
Callistan noticed another bit of dirt on his hand and began to scrape it off
with his nails. “How do I smell?” he asked.

“You stink, my Lord,”
said Hapal, and they both laughed. “Come, we have much to do.”

Callistan slipped out of
the Nording Gate postern just after dusk, passing a silver finn to a sleepy
guard to look the other way. Hapal had tried to convince his master to take
Crayne and the others with him but it had been to no avail. He said he would
travel faster by himself, and there was some truth to that.

Hapal took a sip of his
ale, oblivious to the laughter of the men around him. They had discarded their
thralls’ robes, reasoning that the slipskin would be looking for men that fit
the description the rumours had given him. Hapal knew, at least, that they
would not find Callistan. He was long gone. Off to save his family. Alone. It
didn’t mean that Hapal had to like it.

Seven years as steward
to the Lord of Blackwatch. They had been happy years, for the most part, and
until this trouble with the rebellion in the Greenlands, peaceful years. What
damned fools the rebels had been. Illis had not turned out to be the Empron
they thought he would, but war was never going to make him better. The
rebellion had only confirmed his paranoia and inspired some of his worst
excesses.

Still, loyalty was right
because it was hard. It would be pointless otherwise. Hapal looked at the worn
wood of the bench table. It was scratched and scarred and old like him, but it
was still here, still useful. Gods be thanked that he was still useful.

The gods had seen fit to
test him but he had made it through. How many other men would have done what he
did? How many would have stood by their lord and patron when they learned that
their own son would stand against him on the field of battle? Hapal had
strapped Callistan’s armour to him on that rainy morning, all those months ago.
It had been the first definitive battle of the rebellion and it had been a
massacre. Twelve thousand ill-assorted and poorly-equipped young men ridden
down beneath the merciless hooves of the Dalukar. Hapal was thankful that they
had not found his son’s body. He wouldn’t have been able to look at it. The
elderly steward squeezed the bridge of his nose to allay the tears.
Foolish boy, playing at soldier.

Hapal closed his eyes
and sighed. Hiplin had ever been a foolish boy, and he would not weep for him.
What right did a steward’s son have to be jealous of a noble? What could he
have expected for his lot in life? A castle? A harem? A crown?
All rebels are romantics
, thought Hapal,
but none of them are worth a copper
dusset.

Hapal could still
remember the look on Callistan's face as he had helped him from his horse. Rain
had washed most of the blood away but it still streaked down his armour and
fell as pink droplets from his long, blond hair. Callistan had been exhausted
but he made a point of addressing his men. Theirs was not a victory, he had
said, but a duty, and unpleasant as it had been, it had been for the good of
the Empire, for the safety of their families. Callistan took no joy in
slaughter. The Lord of Blackwatch had his faults but he was a prince compared
to other men of his class. Take Lord Nosteris, for example. The vile man made
no secret of his taste for young boys. Indeed it was not uncommon for him to
pay random visits to the homes of those in his territory known to have pretty
sons. Yes, he paid well, but what price purity? What price a clear conscience?
And in their own homes.
Hapal shuddered
and tried to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

Nosteris was a man to
inspire rebellion. Not Callistan.

Hapal grinned. At least
he had forgotten the damned sword's name.
Swords
should not have names
. The wielder took the life, not the blade. The
wielder should bear the consequences and feel the weight of them, not simply
carve another notch into their hilt.

“Drink up, old father.
It’s almost time for another round,” Crayne laughed and clapped a meaty hand on
to Hapal’s shoulder. All of them had been in a jubilant mood since their
success and Hapal saw no reason to bring them back down; all of them except
Runt, who sat staring thoughtfully into an ale that he hadn’t touched.
He is the smartest of them,
thought
Hapal. “Come, Runt. You too!” Crayne laughed again. “It’s your turn to pay!”
The men roared and spluttered with delight.

Hapal made eye contact
with Runt and smiled, just as the thick wooden door of the tavern burst open.
Silence fell on the room like a wet blanket and suddenly the warm glow from the
hearth was an unbearable furnace of punishing heat. Hapal turned slowly,
ignoring the pale faces of his men. In the door stood the slipskin, still wearing
his armour and Callistan's face. He was flanked by several burly guardsmen,
weapons drawn. Hapal stood and bowed mockingly.

“My Lord,” he said, “we
had not thought to see you again so soon.”

The slipskin grinned and
it was a smile with as much warmth as a winter’s day in the high mountains. He
flicked his gloved hand forward and the men stepped further into the room. The
men with Hapal stood and struggled but they were outnumbered and outmatched.
Some died where they were, others scrambled backwards over tables and chairs,
only to be cut down savagely. Runt died whimpering with a blade in his belly.
Only Hapal was left. He had not moved. He stared the false Callistan in the eye
and spat his derision. The men closed in around him and the stench of blood and
death was replaced by the perfumed malevolence of the slipskin.

Hapal wrinkled his nose.
“You stink,” he said, and smiled. Loyalty was hard.

And the blades began to
fall.

Beccorban had forgotten
how much people stared. He hadn’t lived with others for years and it had been
decades since he had lived in a city. Wort was just a village with only a few
hundred people, yet still they stared, perhaps even more so — they were
more easily impressed than city-dwellers. Old, young, men, women, it didn’t matter,
they all came to cast weary and wary eyes at the man in the mask.

It was a curious thing,
the mask. He had found it inside the robes of the strangely tall, long-faced
man he had killed in the forest. Doubtless the Stranger had used it to conceal
the subtle horror of his features. Oddly he had forsaken it to approach
Beccorban, the man he had sought to slay. It was styled to look like a man’s
face but all the natural curves and smooth edges had been chiselled out,
replaced by angles and straight lines. It was lightweight and cool to the touch
so that Beccorban supposed it had been crafted from some kind of metal. He had
been surprised how well it fit his face. It was secured with a thin leather
strap that ran around the back of his head, but the moulding was so exact that
he thought it would probably stay on anyway. Well, he thought, not entirely
exact. The mask pinched the bridge of his nose, making it difficult to breathe.

Wearing the face of his
enemy, Beccorban emerged from the treeline into the open ground. He tried to
keep his gaze fixed ahead. The mask did not restrict his vision much at all,
but as he entered the bounds of the village, people began to close in around
him and it was a struggle to ignore them. They kept their distance, yet he
could feel the weight of their stares. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel. A
part of him loved being the centre of attention. As a young man, he had sought
out this kind of notice, had craved it. Even now, with his features hidden, he
could command this much scrutiny. He felt alive, with fresh mountain air tinged
with woodsmoke in his lungs. A whole village had suspended work that would help
them survive the winter just to look at him. He felt strong and important and
invincible.

And that made the other
part of him afraid.

He became conscious of
every step he took, of how he was sweating under his furs, of things as absurd
as the grey in his hair.
Do these people
just see an old man?
Beccorban had gone to great lengths to hide Kreyiss.
She was nestled under his furs between his shoulder blades, and the hammer
tapped his buttocks as he walked, as if reminding him that she was not to be
ignored. It was not how he would usually have worn her but there were too many
who still knew her by reputation if not by sight. A warhammer was a rare weapon
nowadays and bringing Kreyiss into the open would be like lighting a beacon to
those who wished him harm. For now he had the upper hand, and he meant to keep
it that way.

He strode forward,
taking no notice of the growing crowd, and made for Hari’s tavern. Hari was the
closest thing he had to an ally out here. Most of the time Beccorban stayed in
the wild, yet sometimes necessity forced him down into Wort for supplies or,
less frequently, news. Hari had no notion of Beccorban’s past, and if the gods
were good it would stay that way. The tavern keeper was a good man and an old
soldier, yet he would not understand. Beccorban was not even sure he deserved
understanding. It had been a different time.

Ahead of him, two
soldiers in crimson armour and thick cloaks staggered from the tavern’s open
door. One was carrying the other and they did not see him before they
disappeared around the back of the wooden building. One of them left a speckle
of blood in his wake.

Beccorban gripped the
handle of the long knife he had strapped to his thigh. Had the soldier been
wounded? A fight? Whatever the case, the presence of the soldiers made things
more difficult. He wanted to stop and think but he could not. To the people
around him he was a spectacle in a black mask and confidence was the shield
that made them keep their distance. He was now only a few steps from the open
door. Hari had a young daughter and had been good to him. He could not bring
violence into Hari’s home, but if they needed help he would do his utmost. He
would be ready.

He stepped into the
tavern.

It was hard to adjust to
the gloom inside after the brilliant glare of the snow, yet he could make out
two soldiers at a dark wooden table. One was young and the other had his back
to him, but both were conscripts. Hari hovered in the background, no doubt
gripping the old billy club he kept hidden near the bar. To the left, in a
corner, was a slight young woman, the lower half of her face covered with a
dark red scarf. One of the soldiers stood quickly and then sat down again,
clearly unsure of what to do. His short blonde hair was plastered to his head
and darkly wet with sweat at the ends. His face still carried the soft edges of
youth and was pink in patches, though Beccorban couldn’t tell whether it was
from embarrassment or cold. He noticed the tankards and jugs stacked on the
floor beside the table. Maybe it was
the
drink, then.

The young blond soldier
stood again and his mouth fell open so that he looked like a suffocating fish.
He made a squeaking noise and looked for help from his companion, who still had
his back to the door.

When none came, he said,
“We had not thought to see you back this soon, milord.” Beccorban did not
respond and the boy put out a hand to steady himself on the table. “Uh, would
you like to sit?” He gestured at the empty place opposite him and then realised
that there was only a pile of broken wood there. He scrambled out from behind
his chair, drawing it back invitingly.

Beccorban looked at
Hari. The tavern keeper could not recognise him behind the mask, but he had a
pained look on his face, as if he was embarrassed for the young soldier.

Beccorban grabbed an
empty chair from an empty table and placed it opposite the speaker, scraping
aside the broken wood with a boot. He paused and then flipped it around so that
the solid back protected his vital organs. Next, he unclipped the catch that
held Kreyiss on his back, deftly catching her weight and slipping his great
bearskin cloak from his shoulders in one motion, wrapping it around the
warhammer so that she remained unseen. He laid the bundle softly on the table,
careful to avoid the telling thump of the weapon’s weight, and sat down,
looking sidelong at the second soldier. This one was also young, but had curly
brown hair that wound around his ears and teased the neck of the crimson tunic
that poked up past his breastplate. He seemed frozen solid except for his eyes
that flitted nervously towards Beccorban’s mask.

These
are boys,
thought
Beccorban.
No wonder they sent old men to
kill me. They didn’t have a choice.
Beccorban knew that he was an imposing
sight even without the mask. His arms were long and thickly muscled, each
criss-crossed with countless scars: some thin streaks of white, others great
leathery worms that stretched across his skin. Under the bearskin he wore a
padded leather jerkin and a wide leather belt fringed with fur. The cloak made
him a giant, yet even without it he was broad across the shoulders and had the
frame of somebody who had lived a life of physical endurance. The
expressionless face of the mask took him from dread warrior to a thing of
nightmare. Beccorban understood fear. He had lived with it and worked for it
and he knew how to use it.

“How many of you are
there?” he asked the frightened soldiers. Beccorban glanced to his left and saw
that Hari was frowning at him. He had made no effort to conceal his voice, if
only to let the tavern keeper know that the man in the mask was familiar to
him. He turned back to the blonde-haired soldier who was also frowning.

“Milord?” said the
soldier.

“I’m not a lord, boy.
How many of you are there?” Beccorban added a hardness to his voice so that it
was clear he would not ask again.

“Four, mi— four,
sir,” the second soldier spoke up. The first soldier glared at his companion,
his fear quickly replaced by an angry glare. It looked ridiculous on such a
young and otherwise open face, and were the situation any different, Beccorban
would have laughed.

“The other two were the
ones I saw disappearing round the back?” he asked.

“I…” the second soldier
looked at the first as if he was asking for permission. When he got no response
he continued anyway. “Yes.”

“We were expecting more
of you, sir,” said the first soldier, with the first jagged edge of suspicion
in his tone.

“You weren’t expecting
me at all,” said Beccorban. He peered down at the solitary wooden plate on the
table. A sorry-looking lump of beefsteak that had been forked and speared
almost beyond recognition sat in a miserable puddle of watery gravy. Beccorban’s
stomach clenched in hope. He was certain that had it possessed arms of its own
it would have reached out and taken the meagre morsel for itself. “Now, answer
my questions and answer them quickly and clearly.”

The two young soldiers
looked at each other and Beccorban suddenly realised how quiet the room was. He
wished he wasn’t wearing the damned mask. He had always hated wearing a helmet
in battle, and though the mask fitted well, he could not be sure it wouldn’t
slip down over his eyes were he forced to move suddenly.

“Why do you wear the
mask?” asked the blonde soldier, staring at Beccorban with piercing eyes. The
old warrior wondered if the lad could read his thoughts.

“I ask the questions,
boy,” Beccorban needed time to think. This conversation was not going the way
he wanted it to and he was running out of ideas to bring it back under control.

“My question is more
important,” said the soldier petulantly.

Beccorban felt a bead of
sweat run slowly but relentlessly down his forehead. His bluff had worked
initially but now curiosity was wielding its power over the soldiers, diluting
their nerves and filling them with a righteous indignation.

“You heard him,” said
the soldier with the curly brown hair. “We’ve never seen you without the mask.
Maybe it’s time you took it off.”

“I would be careful if I
were you, lad,” said Beccorban in a low voice. “And if your hand gets any
closer to that shiny blade of yours, I will cut it off.” He had seen the
nervous soldier creeping a hand towards the sword belt draped over the back of
his chair.

The soldier stopped in
shock but quickly recovered. “Take off your mask, old man,” he sneered. “It’s
time to end this farce.”

Nobody in the tavern
could see it but Beccorban was grinning. His ruse had failed and he knew he did
not have the silver tongue to talk his way out of it. He felt strangely
relieved. This he could do.

The brown-haired soldier
smiled triumphantly, leaning forward with both hands laid flat on the dark wood
of the table, as if he was about to stand.

Beccorban exploded into
action, kicking the table forward so that it slammed into the blonde soldier’s
stomach and threw him off of his chair. Beccorban leapt to his feet, drawing
the long blade from his thigh at the same time and slamming it down into the
hand of the brown-haired soldier with a sickening crack. The soldier screamed
and slid off of his chair on to his knees, tearing the knife through his hand
as his weight failed to dislodge the blade from the wood.

The blonde soldier tried
to stand but Beccorban was faster and was on him before he could recover. “Your
friends are dead, boy,” he said in a cold voice. “I killed them. Every one.”

“You’re him, aren’t
you?” spluttered the soldier. His friend was still screaming — a high
keening sound — and his cockiness lay in shards on the floor. “Oh gods,
are you going to kill me?” He looked as if he was about to cry.

Beccorban reached up and
tore the mask from his face, tossing it aside with a clatter. He ran his hand
through his dark hair, clearing it from in front of his face, and closed his
eyes as the breeze brushed his skin. He opened them again and speared the
soldier with his wintery grey gaze. “That has yet to be decided,” he said.
“Tell your friend to be quiet.”

The blonde soldier
looked past Beccorban to where the brown-haired soldier was moaning in pain and
trying to pry the blade from the table. “Yellen?” he said. “Be still.” Yellen
kept screaming and tugging ineffectually at the knife. “Yellen!” cried the
blonde soldier. “Shut up! Shut up, for gods’ sake!”

Yellen whimpered. “My
hand!” he mewled. “Look what he’s done to my hand, Tollett! Oh gods, it hurts!”
He gave one last great yank, face white with pain, and then sank back to his
knees, weeping softly.

Tollett, the blonde
soldier, slowly raised a soothing hand. “Stay calm, Yellen.”

Beccorban nodded. “Good
boy. Now.” He leaned forward, resting one huge palm on Tollett’s cold
breastplate so that it pressed into the conscript’s neck and groin. As Tollett
had fallen, he had dragged the small lump of beefsteak off of the table to lie
on the rushes by his head. Beccorban snatched it up and wolfed it down, licking
the gravy off his fingers. To anyone else it would have been something to feed
the dogs, but to Beccorban it was a king’s feast, the first proper food he had
eaten in days. “As delicious as ever, Hari,” he called over his shoulder,
noisily sucking the last bits of grease from his fingertips.