Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (2 page)

The stairs ended
abruptly, giving way to an uneven floor, ankle high in sand and fine
dust. At one point, Loster lost his footing on a loose chip of stone,
falling backwards in an explosion of powder. When he came up he was covered
from head to toe, as if he had been the victim of a flour ambush. Barde laughed
and then stopped as his mirth caused a weird and eerie echo.

As they made their way
along, Loster carved an
L
into the
wall every now and again, using a small stick of chalky rock he had found on
the floor. His childhood had been full of stories of would-be heroes getting
lost in forests and underground labyrinths. He would not be caught out.
Eventually their path opened up into a wide passage. Corridors fed off from the
main hall-like passage they were in, yet they dared not stray too far, almost
by silent agreement.

Barde spoke, his voice a
whisper. “What is this place?”

Loster looked around
before he replied, listening for he knew not what. “Whatever it is, I don’t
think anybody knows it’s here.” He took a few steps beyond Barde and peered
into the gloom. The hall seemed to stretch on for a fair distance before ending
in an arched doorway set in a painted fresco. “Where do you think it leads?”
asked Loster.

Barde swallowed. “We
just have to keep going. We must be far down by now. Maybe there’s a way out.”

“Through there?” Loster
gestured at the distant archway.

“Let’s go and look. I
don’t want to be down here much longer. Not when it’s dark.” Loster looked at
him quizzically. “Darker, then.”

They set off, slowing as
they approached the fresco. At the top sat the same symbol they had seen
outside, with more strange script above it. Below stood a hundred mournful
figures, arms emaciated and outstretched towards the black entrance of the
archway. On either side of that daunting shadow sat two great eyes, red and
full of malice. The sun had never seen these depths, never locked its gaze with
that baleful stare. As a result, the fresco still held its colours, vibrant
even in the blue-grey half light.

A cold hand ran its way
down Loster’s spine as he fought back dread. There was no doubt now. This was a
temple of the Unnamed, the domain of the Black God, Father of Woe, Reaper of
Souls, Despair itself. None other than a holy black thrall saw the inside of a
Temple Deep, yet here they stood, before the entrance to one abandoned for ages
unknown, right at the heart of the Widowpeak.

“We should turn back,”
Barde whispered as though afraid of the sound of his own voice.

Every fibre of Loster’s
soul wanted to agree, wanted to run headlong in the opposite direction with
terror nipping at his heels, yet he could not. For a voice had spoken up at the
back of his mind.

“
Foolish child,
”
it said,
“
light and dark cannot harm you. There is
nobody here. Think how they’ll laugh at you when you tell them you ran from an
old painting.
”

“No, Barde. We can’t.
Not now.” His voice was steady despite the fear gnawing at him.

“What are you talking
about? That’s a Temple Deep. We’re—"

“This whole place is a
temple. We already crossed the boundary line when we entered. We’ve made it
this far…” He gave a weak smile. “What if there’s a dagger in there?”

“Then I don’t want it,
Los. I just want to go back. Before something happens or we go somewhere we’re
not supposed to go.”

“Too late.” With that Loster
stepped into the shadows. He didn’t look behind him but he heard Barde give a
whimper and then scuttle after him. The older boy’s presence was a comfort,
even if he had lost his dirk.

The shadows were so deep
that it felt like Loster was being swallowed. The air was musty and held a rank
smell: the layered scent of ancient putrescence. His nose rebelled whenever he
had to breathe in. Barde’s footsteps were muffled and the narrow stone meant
that it was hard to tell what direction the sounds were coming from. Yet Loster
had no doubt that his older brother was behind him, if only because he too was
afraid of being lost, alone and in the dark.

Darkness gave way to a
ghostly radiance tinged with a blue-green haze. Loster rounded a corner and
stopped suddenly. The narrow staircase he was on ended within a few steps,
hugging the wall of a large round chamber, the centrepiece of which was a low
altar of blackest stone, smooth and dished in the middle.

“It stinks in here,”
said Barde, covering his face with his hand.

Loster realised then
that he had been holding his breath. He drew in a slow breath and nearly
gagged. The air was like a soup: thick with a sharp taste of bitter iron. There
was no mistaking the stench of blood, old and brown but fetid nonetheless. As
he approached the altar with his brother it became clear that the stone’s deep
shade of black was actually a dark brown. Loster continued to breathe shallowly
as he held his nose. He could taste the acrid tang at the back of his throat, a
cloying, oily taste that made his gorge rise.

“What happened here, do
you think?” asked Barde. Loster knelt and examined a pile of bones by his feet.
A skull grinned back at him from its lair of human remains.

“People died,” he said.

A low growl of stone
against stone echoed through the chamber, sending both boys scrambling behind
the altar.

“What in gods’ name is
that?” croaked Barde in a sharp whisper.

“Sssssh!" Loster
grabbed his brother by his soiled tunic and dragged him across the room. A high
and narrow doorway loomed towards them and they stumbled through it, running
aimlessly into the dark. The boys took a short flight of stairs and rounded a
bend, stumbling out on a ruined gallery that overlooked the altar room below.
Loster crouched, hugging a waist high column slick with moss, and looked back
towards the narrow stairs. Barde tripped over him and swore.

“What are you doing?! We
have to keep going.” He plucked at Loster’s sleeve.

“Stop. I want to see!”
Loster fought his brother’s hand away.

“We’re not supposed to
be here. It could be anyone,” his voice was urgent. “Or anything!”

Loster grabbed his
brother and clapped a hand over his mouth just as the sound of metallic
footsteps echoed off the stone. The young adventurer bit his tongue to still
any sounds he might make as he listened to the tinny shuffle of something very
large and very heavy, making its way down the narrow stone stairway. Each step
was spaced far apart as if it were only achieved by some great effort.

CLANG…
CLANG… CLANG
.

The noise grew ominously
louder as its author got closer until every blast of noise felt like a physical
blow.

CLANG…
CLANG… CLANG
.

Barde peeled his
brother’s hand away, reassuring Loster with a glance that he would remain
silent. The boys turned back to peer down at the altar, hovering between the
urge to hide and the need to see.

The footsteps were right
on top of them now, causing the very stone to shake underneath.

CLANG…
CLANG… CLANG
.

A handful of the mossy
balustrade came away in Loster’s hand. He stared at it in terror, afraid that
their hiding place would come crashing down around their ears. He wanted to
run, to put all thought of stealthy observance out of his mind and flee
headlong into the labyrinthine tunnels of this long-forgotten place of
darkness. He looked over at his brother and stopped. Barde was staring down at
the stairs that they had used to enter the altar room moments before, his face
a picture of utter dread.

For it had arrived, the
owner of those footsteps, and its reality was as terrible as the mind of a
child could encompass.

A huge knight towering
well over thrice the height of a normal man stood at the bottom of the stairs,
scanning the room. Loster could see now why the tunnels had such high ceilings;
what he had thought was merely design was in fact to admit the passage of this
steel-clad guardian. Its armour was black as a raven’s wings and adorned with
wicked spikes and sharp edges that looked like weapons themselves. The
Guardian’s sword hung at its waist. It was a vast lump of tarnished iron, straight
and sharp, with a blade as thick as a man’s waist. So heavy did it appear that
it was a wonder even this subterranean monster could lift it. For the Guardian,
though tall, was inhumanly thin, with limbs unnaturally long and narrow in
relation to its great height.

Yet none of this was
what caused Loster’s heart to beat in his chest like a caged animal. Armour was
something that he saw all of the time in and around his father’s house. Some,
like the plate of his family’s household guard, was plain and dull, yet every
now and again a mercenary or tourney knight would pass through the village.
Their armour could be many different colours and shapes, some beautiful and
intricately engraved, others cruel-looking and designed to intimidate. Other
than its sheer size, the armour worn by the Guardian was not anything abnormal.
Its helm was another matter. It was a wall of sheer metal, like some great
steel cliff, smooth and unmarked and pointed in the middle like the prow of a
ship. That expanse was split by a thin visor that ran the whole way across it,
giving the impression that the helm was two separate pieces. Above the visor,
the helm ended in a jagged ridge of twisted metal that seemed at once both a
crown and a set of horns, whilst below, the helm tapered to a sharp and
triangular point.

The great head snapped
to one side suddenly and a faint snuffling sound could be heard.

Out of the corner of his
eye Loster caught Barde looking at him. The snuffling continued as the
monstrous mirrored surface of the helm tracked across the room. It passed over
the altar and its crusting of blood, it swept along the wall and the damaged
tiles that had gathered on the floor. The Guardian ran its gaze underneath the
gallery that held the two small boys and then, with a suddenness that clutched
at the back of Loster’s throat, the giant creature stopped its search and went
rigid.

The snuffling grew
louder and more insistent. 

Loster’s stomach dropped
as he realised what was happening. It was smelling them! Sniffing
them out like a hunting dog tracks a deer that has gone to ground.

Searing dread burnt the
air in his lungs as he scrabbled backwards but it was too late. The
Guardian’s head snapped up, that soulless black gaze reaching inside Loster’s
head and squeezing his brain like overripe fruit. The boys screamed as one and
hauled themselves to their feet, clutching at the scree and loose detritus
until bloody finger nails and raw palms found enough purchase to drag
themselves away.

A great thrumming noise
tugged at the corner of Loster’s consciousness. He looked over his shoulder
just in time to see that monstrous sword swung in a great overhead arc. It
hit Barde in the centre of his skull, crushing his head down into his neck and
then exploding out through his chest. Loster did not have time to close
his mouth as he was blasted with a shower of blood, flesh, and gore.

A stinging pain flared
below his right eye, causing him to wince. It was just the impetus he
needed. Loster dragged himself away from the ruin that had been Barde and
sprinted along the gallery through a high archway.

A great mailed hand dug
steel fingers into the ancient stone near the rapidly spreading pool of blood.
The Guardian climbed lithely up on the balcony and paused. It stared
dispassionately down at Barde’s broken body and then looked in the direction of
the fleeing child. The iron smell of blood stung the air and, for the
first time in more than a thousand years, the altar began to glow. 

Loster ran, tripping and
falling several times but picking himself up and carrying on. There was no
sound of pursuit, yet he was oblivious to all but the slap of his feet on the
floor and the rasp of his own laboured breathing.

It was pitch black in
the tunnels. Sweat, blood, and tears coated his face and made him a canvas for
all of the dust and grime to stick to. Something warm ran down into the corner
of his mouth. It was gritty with dirt and held a metallic taste. He was not
sure whether it was his blood or Barde’s but he had no time to care. His mind
was focused on one thing: flight.

Loster did not know how
long he ran for. Eventually he began to slow as even his childlike energy
waned, his trembling legs resisting every step. The tunnels grew lighter until
finally Loster turned a corner into white brilliance, the light breathing new
life into long-dried tears as his eyes screamed in protest.

He raised his arms to
his face, shielding them from the sun. The boy couldn’t tell at which point he
left the tunnels but suddenly he was surrounded by birdsong and the welcome
smell of the forest. Lost as he was, he wandered for hours until a horseman
found him. The man was Huss, one of his father’s hunter-trackers. He had been
searching for the brothers for a night and a day.

Back in his father’s
hall he was called before his sire even before he was allowed to rest or eat.
Sat on his carved ebon chair, Lord Gaston Malix cut an imposing and grand
figure: broad of shoulder and long of limb and decked in a fine robe of purple
whale fur. His smooth, unlined face was etched in an unfitting scowl and yet
managed to show no sign of worry or apprehension over his eldest son’s fate.
Loster’s mother had been inconsolable when only one of the boys had returned,
and so she had been ordered from the great wooden chamber where the Lord of Elk
received petitioners.