Exile (Bloodforge Book 1) (34 page)

“Why did you say I was
your son?” he asked abruptly.

“Because it was an
easier explanation. Faster.”

“Do you know what
Droswain wants with us?”

“Agh!” Beccorban sat up
and threw his hands skywards in despair. “Questions, boy! Always questions.
You’re like Riella. No, that’s not fair. She’s a lot prettier than you.” He
laughed then and his laugh was a great booming chortle that fought the very
waves for dominance. Loster could not help but be swept up in it and he laughed
too.

“Sails!” came the cry
and Beccorban sprang to his feet.

“Best to go below, Loster.”

Loster clambered to his
feet, trying to match the roll and sway of the ship. He looked around, scanning
the horizon for the tell-tale shape of another ship, but there was only sea and
sky. Beccorban lifted his great hammer from his rolled cloak and Loster
wondered how many men had died beneath its weight. “The man who told you those
words — Greathelm — where is he now?”

“Dead. I stabbed him in
the belly because I thought he had wronged me.”

Loster swallowed. “And
had he?”

Beccorban shrugged. “I
never cared to find out.”

“It’s a black sail,
Captain!” The distant figure of the lookout, high up in the crow’s nest, called
down a warning.

A cold feeling grew in
Loster’s stomach and he stepped in under the flimsy shelter of the wheelhouse
as the main deck became a frenzy of activity. Colourfully dressed sailors
rushed back and forth, boiling out of hatches, tugging on lines and hauling on
rigging. Loster had never known there were so many aboard. He grabbed
Beccorban’s arm. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, lad, but
it doesn’t look good.” He looked down and his eyes were full of concern. “Go
below. Find Riella, or Droswain, even. The wind’s picking up and things will be
busy up here.” With that he walked away to the stern rail, careful to hug the
gunwale and thus avoid any passing sailors. Loster hesitated and followed him,
weaving in and out of the busy crew.

The mainsail suddenly
snapped rigid with a great thunder-crack as the ship came around to meet the
wind directly. It drove them off their heading but it gave them all of the
speed they could muster and clearly the Captain had speed at the forefront of
his mind. The colourful, jolly character was standing just behind the helmsman,
calling out orders in a voice made tinny by the bronze cone he used to amplify
it. His eyes were everywhere. Loster thought that no one man could keep track
of so many things but the Captain’s face was calmness itself. Only once in a
while did he turn to peer over his shoulder, his eyes lingering too long on the
horizon.

“Another sail!” came the
cry from above and, though Loster would not have thought it possible, the busy
sailors seemed to double their speed, responding to new orders at the run with
no less skill or care than before.

“Is it black, Loppo?
Tell me, is it black?”

“Yes, mulco. Also
black.”

The Captain cursed.
“Thank you, Loppo, and ‘Captain’ if you please, we are in action.”

The lookout yelled down
an apology and Loster watched in fascination at the hive of activity around
them. He looked over the stern rail, past Beccorban, towards the wobbly line
where grey sky met greyer sea. He could not be sure but it seemed to him as
though two tiny points, like distant island mountains, were growing upwards
from the depths.

“They’re gaining on us,”
he said.

“No fear, lad,” said
Beccorban but Loster knew it was best to say nothing lest his voice betray him.
It would waken Barde.

They sped northwards at
a dizzying pace, crashing through waves too sluggish to get out of the way. The
sharp prow of the ship cut each wave in half, making them explode in great
blooms of foam and spume that looped over the deck and fell back down like
rainwater. The
Lussido
was hurled up
on to the watery peaks of great grey-green leviathans, then cast downwards into
depths so dark Loster could swear he was peering into Hel.

He staggered as the ship
bucked under him and Beccorban grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, hauling
him upright. The big man tried to say something but the wind snatched his voice
away. Something slammed nearby and a dishevelled, green-tinged Droswain emerged
from the bowels of the ship.

“Go, go with the
priest!” Beccorban pushed him towards Droswain who stood awkwardly, half of his
body still inside the ship, the other half braving the elements. The remnants
of a wave came down like a shelf of rock on to Loster, soaking him in icy water
and knocking him to his knees. The deck rocked as the ship rode a swell. Loster
fell sideways but Droswain reached out like a predatory insect and caught him
by the arm, dragging him towards the open hatch with surprising strength.

“We need to go below!
It’s safer there!” Droswain called above the howling wind.

Loster nodded and turned
to look after Beccorban but the big man had returned to the rail and was facing
out towards the sea, riding the angry motion of the ship on experienced feet.

A whoop of joy cut
through the wind and Loster turned to see Callistan, arms outstretched and hair
blowing all around him like flames of pale gold.

The young acolyte
thought they must be getting away, but when he looked he saw that the ships
with the black sails were closer than ever, one near enough to make out the
tall figures that pranced along its length. Droswain pulled him into the
semi-darkness of the lower deck and slammed the hatch shut. The wind became a
muted roar and once again Loster could hear the creaks of rope and tortured
wood.

“Come, Loster. Let us go
to my cabin. We can dry you up there. You’re far too important to get washed
overboard.”

“But the others…” he
began. “I think Callistan has gone mad. They’re getting closer and he’s
enjoying himself!”

“No, Loster, not getting
closer.” Droswain frowned and ushered him along the narrow corridor. “They’ve
already caught us.”

Callistan threw his head
back into the wind and his heart soared as it stole his breath. This was
living! This was the most alive he had felt in weeks. Cold spray stung him on
the cheek and sent a jolt of energy down into his bones. A great cheer sounded
and Callistan looked to the back of the ship where the big hammerman stood like
a misplaced figurehead, swaying with the roll of every wave. There, no more
than a few bowshots’ distance away, the closest enemy ship stalked ever closer
like some deep sea predator.

“She flounders!” a
dark-skinned sailor cried and Callistan turned to follow an outstretched arm
that pointed past the first ship to the second, still some distance behind and
shrouded in the thin mist that was beginning to form. Its main yardarm had
snapped in two, casting the black sail into the water and threatening to drag
the whole ship under the waves.
Nature,
the great equaliser,
Callistan thought. On land the tall men were stronger,
faster, better equipped. Out here in the Scoldsee they were all at the mercy of
the Blue God of the Temple Main. “Smile, man,” said the sailor in his thick
Sturmon brogue. “The gods are with us!”

Callistan did as he was
told and grinned from ear to ear. Even from far away he could see the thin,
lanky shapes of the enemy sailors swarming over the fallen rigging, labouring
to cut it loose. He threw his head back and howled at the elements, and the man
next to him laughed and clapped him meatily on the back. He moved to the stern,
walking quickly over to Beccorban’s side. The big man was not cheering with the
others. Instead he had removed his heavy bearskin cloak, folded it neatly and
placed it out of the way near the wheelhouse. His face was grim. “Ready
yourself, horseman. We haven’t got long.” The old warrior unhooked his hammer
from the thongs on his back and gripped it tightly. A few nearby cast wary
glances at him but he simply turned to face back out towards the enemy.

The closest ship was now
closer still, making unnatural progress against the wind. The mist was
thickening, curling around its bow like smoke in the breeze. Its black hull was
very low in the water, and Callistan could picture dozens of freakishly tall
soldiers erupting from every hatch. Some of them were already gathering near
the raised quarterdeck, wearing that uncomfortably familiar armour that only
seemed to accentuate their odd stature. Other, slightly less tall soldiers were
in loose-fitting robes that seemed wholly impractical for sea travel. A
boarding party. Callistan could hear orders being barked out in a strange
tongue, could hear the stamp of feet that did not belong to men, and the creak
of salt-stained canvas and tarred rope that had seen stranger shores than he
could imagine. The big man was right.

Not long now.

The sailors around him
seemed to pause in their efforts, some casting nervous glances towards the
enemy ship, others towards the wheelhouse where the Captain in his bright
motley was trying to coax one last burst of speed from his ship. At last, even
he fell silent and to Callistan it seemed that the burly man slumped a little.
The Captain fumbled in his pockets and produced a thin silver tube. He raised
it to his lips and blew a shrill whistle.

“Men of the Lussido!” he
cried. “Stand to!”

The cry echoed around
the ship in many different tones and timbres and the hatches leading below were
flung open, more men pouring forth with knives, old naval hangers, and hatchets
in their fists. The
Lussido
herself
seemed to sense the decision to stand and fight and she slowed, wallowing in
the water and turning her head to present her side to the enemy. The tall men’s
ship came alongside with an agonising slowness and then there was a savage jerk
and a deafening crack. Several men were thrown to the deck but they recovered
quickly and stood, clutching weapons in sweaty hands.

Callistan drew his
falcata from the sheath on his back and tapped Beccorban on the shoulder. “I’m
ready, Helhammer. Are you?”

Beccorban responded with
a grunt and then a spiked boarding platform smashed through the rail and
embedded itself in the deck, and all was chaos.

“We should be up there,”
said Loster, wringing his hands and trying not to notice Riella’s look of
surprise. He was sat on a poorly-built wooden chair in Droswain’s cabin. It was
a small cabin, like any on a fighting vessel, and Loster had to duck his head
to avoid the low beams, but it was comfortable enough — more so than the
bolthole that Riella and Mirril had been assigned to. They had escaped for the
moment and were sitting on the floor nearby. Droswain, perched on his cot, was
less than happy with their presence. “I should be helping,” Loster continued.

“Doing what exactly?”
The priest spread his hands. “Can you rig a sheet, or taper a sail for a
crosswind? Perhaps you can fight the wind itself?” He chuckled and Loster
lowered his head. “Forgive me, Loster. I did not mean to mock.”

“No more than usual,”
added Riella, earning a glare from the small priest.

A muted roar, louder
than the wind, vibrated through the hull and they all instinctively looked up.

“It seems they do not
need our help,” said Droswain. “Encouraging, is it not?”

Loster nodded but he
could not shake the feeling that he was not doing his bit, that he was running
away again. He could feel the insistent tug at the back of his head that he had
learned heralded Barde’s coming.

Droswain stood suddenly,
coming to squat in front of him. The ship juddered and the small priest fell
sideways, but he rode it smoothly, twisting his legs as though he had
intentionally sat down. He leaned forward. “Are you afraid, Loster?”

Loster swallowed and
looked at Riella but she and Mirril were still staring at the ceiling. He
turned back to Droswain and searched the small man’s shrewish face for some
kind of malice. Though it seemed open, it was difficult to read. “Yes, I am
afraid.”

“It is a good thing to
be afraid, you know? If you don’t fear then you cannot be brave, and if you’re
not brave then people will not follow you.”

“Beccorban’s not
afraid,” said Mirril. “He isn’t scared of anything.”

“Oh, but he is, child.
He is scared of so many things.” Riella glared at Droswain but he just smiled
back.

“I don’t want anybody to
follow me,” said Loster quietly.

Droswain turned back to
him and his smile dropped. “Oh, but you must!” He stood and even his pointy
head nearly touched the ceiling. “That man, Beccorban, your father. Do you know
that he goes by other names?”

“Careful, priest,” said
Riella. “Beccorban is not the monster from the stories. He has saved every life
here at least once.”

Droswain laughed and
Loster shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Death may have mellowed him some but
I can assure you that people never change. He is the Helhammer, and you,
Loster, you are the Hammer’s Son!” The priest raised his arms triumphantly as
though he expected people to applaud.

Loster frowned. “I’m not
really his son.”

“Of course you are not.
It’s symbolic! You don’t have to actually be the Helhammer’s son but he did
bring you to me. It is a sign.”

“A sign of what…” Riella
began but he waved her down.

“You said you wanted to
help, Loster — well, you will. More than you know. The gods have sent us
you in our hour of need. They have spoken to me.”

Riella snorted.

“The gods? They didn’t
send me, my father did, my real father, Lord Malix of Elk. He wanted me to be a
priest. It has nothing to do with the gods!” Loster tried to sound angry but
all he could see were the bright red eyes of the Unnamed in the chamber beneath
the Widowpeak, and his voice wavered. “The gods wouldn’t talk to you, you’re
not even a priest! You were banished!”

“Men banished me, not
the gods.” Droswain’s voice was dark. He pointed a finger. “Make sure you know
the difference.” Mirril whimpered and Droswain ran a hand over his face. When
it passed, something hard seemed to have melted behind his eyes — eyes so
brown they appeared wholly black. He sat back down on the bed. “Hush, child. Do
you know the children’s rhyme, ‘Watchers’?”

Mirrill nodded.

“Recite it for me.”

Loster was confused but
Droswain sat forward, waiting for the small girl to start.

“Evil comes from darkest
deep…” she began in a small voice.

“Louder.”

“Evil comes from darkest
deep,

To steal your children
in their sleep,

Watchers from beyond the
water,

Take your son, take your
daughter,

But good of heart and
full of cheer,

Have nothing from this
foe to fear.”

Droswain clapped his
hands with delight and rocked back on his cot. “Very good, Mirril. Very good,
indeed. Do you know the history of that rhyme?”

She shook her head.

“It’s just a children’s
song,” said Loster. “My mother used to sing it to me and… she used to sing it
when I was younger.”

Droswain chuckled low in
his throat. “No, Loster. It is a poem, loosely translated from its original
Dalvossi. The poet is unknown but the real poem ends rather differently. Would
you like to hear it?” Loster’s voice caught in his throat but Droswain went on
anyway.

“…Watchers from beyond
the water,

Kill
your son,
eat
your daughter,

All is lost, but there
is one,

Soul-scarred, sinned,
the Hammer’s Son.”

He had to admit. There
was a grandeur to the words.

“It is a prophecy,
Loster, and not some crooked seer’s ranting. I found it carved into the walls
of the inner sanctum of a Temple Deep and I was exiled for it. You
are
the Hammer’s Son. You are the one
who will lead us against the evil that hunts us.”

Loster sat stunned for a
moment, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t a hero, he was a coward. He had not
even possessed the strength to put Aifayne out of his misery. How could he ever
be spoken about in the same breath as men like Beccorban? Violent, powerful,
infallible. He was none of those things.

There was a great ripping
sound and Riella let out a honk of mirth. “Him? You really must be mad,
Droswain.”

“Quiet, you fool. I know
more about this than anyone alive and when I say he is the Hammer’s Son I mean
it. He fits the description. All of it.” He turned to Loster and his eyes were
telling. “Don’t you?”

A sharp pain began at
the back of Loster’s neck, and he had an image of Barde, bloody and mutilated,
clambering from the pit where he had been slumbering, digging in to the soft
parts of his head with nails that not even death could trim.

“
He knows. He knows of your shame. It’s in his eyes,
” said his long
dead brother.

“If he is a hero then he
should be up with the others, fighting. We all should!” Riella stood and even
she was taller than Droswain.

“Not all of us need to
spill blood to be useful,” the exiled priest spat back.

“No, you just get others
to do it for you.”

“I’m used to women
having more respect.”

“I doubt you’re used to
women at all.”

“Yes, well, we can’t all
rut for a living.”

“Or at all, in fact.”

“Shut up!” Loster broke
in, clutching the sides of his head as the pain threatened to make his skull
burst. He took a deep breath and yet still his head whistled.

“Can you hear that?”
asked Riella, and for a terrifying moment, Loster was convinced that his
innermost thoughts had been laid bare. She marched to the door and wrenched it
open. A score of sailors were streaming past in a great long line, all shouting
the same refrain. “Stand to! Stand to! All men on deck!” The whistle was louder
now. Riella cursed and drew the small knife she called Esha. Droswain gripped
her wrist so hard that his knuckles went white. “Don’t be an idiot, girl.
You’ll just get in the way.”

“They are calling all
men
to battle,” she snarled. “Let go of
me. Loster, are you coming?”

Loster ignored her. He
was watching the last few sailors run past. All of them were eager to go and
meet their deaths but one of them hung back from the crowd, until he picked his
moment and slipped through a dark side door. Loster pushed past Riella and
Droswain and made for the dark portal. Yes, there! A flash of movement. Riella
called after him but he carried on, slipping inside the room.

It was empty.

It was a small storage
cupboard, and the only points of interest were an open hatch on the floor with
a ladder leading down and a row of lanterns hanging from hooks. One was
missing. He pushed at the back of his teeth with his tongue. Why would a sailor
abandon his crew to flee down below? To hide? Perhaps, but there was something
else making him unsure. There were plenty of places to hide on this deck; the
ship was a warren to the uninitiated.